


Simple introduction starters: the short stories

by zemyr



Series: A Fleet Admiral's Witcher adventures [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2020-10-26 01:42:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 57,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20734163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zemyr/pseuds/zemyr
Summary: A Fleet Admiral commands many ships.In this collection of self-indulgent nonsense I aim to give my ships a little bit of attention in a series of one-shots based on a list of introduction starters linked in chapter one. Additional warnings will be added in the author notes of each chapter.Largely following the games and my own headcanons.





	1. Simple Introduction Starters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No edits, no betas, we go down like gentlemen.

https://memesfortheroleplayerssoul.tumblr.com/post/163175938421/simple-introduction-starters

⊱simple introduction starters⊰

Chapter 2 - Roche/Iorveth: ❝why are you staring at me?❞ aka Roche is hopelessly in love.  
Chapter 3 - Geralt/Dettlaff: ❝so how long have you been working here?❞ aka Geralt thinks Dettlaff is a prostitute.  
Chapter 4 - Lambert and Ciri: ❝why are you following me?❞ aka Lambert is Sad and Ciri Won't Have It.  
Chapter 5 - Geralt/OC: ❝can you hear me?❞ aka Geralt and how to get amnesia.  
Chapter 6 - Yennefer/Lambert: ❝you're going to do WHAT with WHAT?❞ aka Yen and Lambert does Science.  
Chapter 7 - Roche and Ves: ❝that outfit looks nice on you, where'd you get it?❞ aka Roche and Ves cleans out Flotsam.  
Chapter 8 - Dandelion/Zoltan: ❝is this seat saved for anyone?❞ aka Zoltan cures a Bard's Blues.  
Chapter 9 - Roche/Ciaran: ❝you'll be ok, i promise.❞ aka Roche fixes a broken elf (and himself).  
Chapter 10 - Elihal/Eibhear/Mislav ❝i think that guy is giving you a weird look.❞ aka Elven best buddies give gay pep talk.  
Chapter 11 - Lambert/Aiden, Letho on the side: ❝you have the prettiest smile i've seen all day.❞ aka Lambert becomes a Girl.  
Chapter 12 - Emhyr/Lambert/Mererid ❝i have several questions, first off WHY?❞ aka Emhyr's blessings upon Lambert.  
Chapter 13 - Geralt/Dandelion ❝do i have anything on my shirt?❞ aka Bard-aid in a Crisis  
Chapter 14 - Roche and Iorveth: ❝are you third-wheeling too?❞ aka Roche is Drinking/Iorveth is Shrinking

❝what are you doing here?❞  
❝you're going to hurt yourself, let me help you.❞  
❝if you didn't want to talk to me, you could've just said so.❞  
❝i think you dropped this.❞  
❝here, i'll pay for that.❞  
❝so i assume you're the one everyone's talking about.❞  
❝why are you doing this?❞  
❝so that looks dangerous... want to try it?❞  
❝can you help me grab this?❞  
❝don't talk to me until i've had my coffee. thanks.❞  
❝that was possibly the weirdest thing i've ever seen.❞  
❝are you waiting for an interview too?❞  
❝i've never been here before, it's beautiful.❞  
❝do you know the directions to (location)?❞  
❝how many of those have you had?❞  
❝i'm not suppose to talk to strangers.❞  
❝i think you're on my foot...❞  
❝i guess you're stuck with me 'til the elevator starts working.❞  
❝could you POSSIBLY get more annoying?❞  
❝why would you do that?"  
❝hey are you ok?❞  
❝do you live here?❞  
❝why are like this?❞  
❝who did this to you?❞  
❝who told you that?❞


	2. why are you staring at me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roche/Iorveth, no specific warnings apply.

"Why are you staring at me?"

Iorveth wished they were not indoors, not stuck in a corner in an inn by a table that was so small their knees knocked together under the table. Outdoors he could usually just walk away when Roche got into one of his moods, but now he was stuck with a big meal in a crowded inn, and Roche was just sitting there, chin resting on his hand, fork lifted half way to his mouth and all the food forgotten.

“Vernon, why the fuck are you staring?” Iorveth repeated, kicking Roche gently on the foot to wake him up.

The only thing that happened was that Roche’s expression melted into a dreamy, utterly love-struck smile.

“Bloede dh’oine,” Iorveth grumbled, pulling his, or rather Roche’s, hood up over his head to cover his blushing ears.


	3. so how long have you been working here?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dettlaff/Geralt, E rating for sex, drunkenness and blood drinking.

"So, how long have you been working here?"

Dettlaff looked up, and if mild confusion had not been his default state of being, he would have been mildly confused at the question. He tilted his head very slightly to the side, then looked around to see if the man had been talking to anyone else.

“I got to admit, it’s been… years,” the stranger said, a witcher by the look of him. A gambling witcher, if the stack of gwent cards he kept spilling on the floor was any indication. “Fuck. Years. Yeah. Years since I last came here, you know, you know -none- of the guys even wanted to give it a go. Got good solid cash, me, what’s wrong with it.”

Dettlaff automatically reached out to help when the witcher almost crashed into the bench next to him and reached out, grabbing Dettlaff’s coat to keep himself steady.

“I know the right words and all,” the witcher slurred, patting Dettlaff’s coat lapels carefully. “You know. Start up pick up lines. Pick up lines in brothels, it’s a waste isn’t it but we can’t shirk on traditions, can we.”

“Can I be of assistance?” Dettlaff asked as he helped putting the beer stained cards into the witcher’s bag to keep them safe.

“Yeah, how long you been working here?” the witcher asked, tried to sit on the bench and ended up on his knees on the flagstones by Dettlaff’s feet. “Or.. or… what’s a sweet thing like you doing in a place like this?”

“Perhaps it is better if you just tell me what I can do for you, sir,” Dettlaff said as he reached out to steady the man. The witcher looked up at him, bleary eyed with drink and with his matted, grey hair hanging over his face.

“I need to get fuckin’ railed,” the witcher said. “I need a break from…”

Dettlaff watched as the witcher gesticulated at what seemed to be the entire world. He realised that he was sitting on a bench half a block from one of Vizima’s larger brothels, the witcher must have stumbled down from the back door, it seemed.

“And you wish for me to do this?” Dettlaff asked.

“I can pay.”

“I do not have a room.”

“Come to the inn with me.”

“Alright.”

The witcher was very drunk, the climb of the back stairs to the upper levels of his room went slowly. It was low, small, wedged into the corner of the attic and very noisy. It seemed there was some kind of festivities going on downstairs.

He helped the witcher out of his clothing and tried to just tuck him into bed so he could sleep off his mood, but the grip on his arm was desperate when he tried to leave.

“Please don’t go,” the witcher whispered. Dettlaff eyed him, and nodded slowly before closing his eyes. He reached out, felt the minds of the bruxae prostitutes down the street, a few alps nesting in the ruins that made up the foundation of the city and in the small cabin in the woods some way away, Regis sleeping peacefully in his shroud.

He had spent a long time nursing Regis back to health, going to Vizima was meant to be a break for him, a chance to regain his own strength as Regis required so much of his.

The witcher breathed a sigh in relief as Dettlaff took his clothes off and crawled into the itchy bed.

“What is your name?” Dettlaff asked, dodging the kisses and turning the witcher onto his stomach. Getting run through by a silver blade was not deadly for him, but it would be a set back and cause him to need further recovery before he could return to Regis, besides, human tongues did so badly with Dettlaff’s mouth in general.

“Geralt,” the witcher whispered, moaning into the filthy pillow as Dettlaff got on top of him.

“Will you allow me to enter you, Geralt?” Dettlaff said, then waited patiently until Geralt stopped laughing. He pressed his lips to the back of Geralt’s neck, his cock dripping wetly in between Geralt’s cheeks. Geralt eventually calmed down and turned his head slightly.

“I know what you are,” he mumbled, blinking lazily. “I give you my permission to fuck me, vampire.”

“How did you know?” Dettlaff asked as he reached in between them, feeling how Geralt arched his back under him. He found the tight hole opened for his cock with ease.

“‘Cause I’m as wet as the Pontar,” Geralt whispered with a triumphant smile before Dettlaff bottomed out, pushing a rough moan out of him. “It’s fine. It’s nice. Just fuck me.”

Dettlaff did as told. Geralt was still very drunk, drunk enough that there was no reaction from his cock as Dettlaff wrapped his hand around the limp limb but under the scent of alcohol, mutations, unwashed clothing and royalty, he smelled content enough with what was being done to him, so Dettlaff wrapped his arms around Geralt’s shoulders, pushed his legs apart with his knees and started a steady pace when he found one that seemed to be most agreeable for the witcher.

It was strange, a monster hunter allowing a monster to have him this way, perhaps it was the alcohol, perhaps he was just odd, but he was warm and eager and tight and way too drunk to get hard, so Dettlaff did not bother holding back. Within minutes, Geralt was arching his back to receive as much as he could when Dettlaff came inside him.

“Just what I needed,” Geralt mumbled where he was pinned between the rotten mattress and Dettlaff’s body which was filling him to the brim, gasping softly whenever Dettlaff’s cock twitched inside him. “You look awful by the way.”

“I have had a rough year,” Dettlaff mumbled as he pressed his brow to Geralt’s shoulder. Vampires did little by halves, and he grit his teeth and Geralt groaned as yet another weak splurt of cum added to the squelching mess already inside the witcher.

“Y’done?”

“I am, I think. Do you have a towel somewhere?”

Geralt waved a hand in the general direction of the nightstand. Dettlaff found one, pulled out carefully and tucked the towel between Geralt’s legs to catch the spill.

“How much do I owe you?” Geralt asked as Dettlaff sat down next to him on the bed, searching for his clothes in the mess on the floor.

“Nothing. I am no prostitute.”

“You really do look like shit, though.”

Dettlaff looked up at the window and noticed the reflection of his own face. His hair was pale grey, his face was more lined than he was used to, and his normally slender body was positively gaunt. He did look horrible. Regis’s recovery was taking a lot out of him.

“I know I’m a bit… y’know. Inctoxtriated. And I probably taste like mutations.”

Dettlaff glanced down at the exhausted witcher who had not moved an inch.

“But you can have a sip if you want. It’d perk you up a bit.”

“You are a very strange witcher, Geralt.”

“I’m in fuckin’ politics,” Geralt grumbled. “Court damn politics. Seen far worse monsters ‘n you among nobility these past months and I feel like being properly used on my own terms today.”

“You are sure?”

“Mhm. Gobble me up vampy.”

It was too tempting. Dettlaff could often find willing donors, but it took time, a lot of convincing and no small amount of charm of which he had very little to begin with. And Geralt was offering.

The witcher was watching him out of the corner of his eye, blinking slowly as Dettlaff found a good spot on his shoulder and spent a while licking at it until he could pierce the skin without causing much pain and lapped the blood up without spilling a drop. He pulled back when he started feeling light-headed and pressed his hand to the wounds until they stopped bleeding.

“Thank you, Geralt,” he whispered, pulled the blankets up to keep him warm and stroked Geralt’s long grey hair over and over until he fell asleep.


	4. why are you following me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri forcing friendship on Lambert. No specific warning applies.

❝why are you following me?❞

“You didn’t say where you’re going,” Ciri said as she half-ran to keep up with Lambert’s much longer legs. “And I want to know.”

“I didn’t say because I don’t want you to follow me, you bloody tick,” Lambert snapped and glared back at her. Ciri pouted as Lambert suddenly verged off to the side and onto a smaller path, she had to run to keep up already and then Lambert started running as well. 

He was quick, very quick, proper witcher quick but Ciri was quick as well. She had done all the training the witchers had done, and even if she was smaller she had less weight to move, so she managed to keep up for a while and then she just followed the trail. 

“Lambert!”

The path twisted down towards the river, it was covered in dry leaves and her legs were getting harder to move as the muscles burned with exhaustion, it was stupid, stupid, but she tripped, fell flat on her face and stayed down for a moment to catch her breath. 

It was likely the only way she would have been able to see him where he sat in the shadow of an upturned pine tree overlooking the river. He had probably heard her miles away, he did not react when she climbed down the hill, onto the upturned tree trunk and dropped down onto the narrow ledge next to him. He did not react when she sat down next to him, did not react when she ducked under his arm and wrapped an arm around his back. 

After a little while, Lambert took her left wrist and looked at the scrapes on her hand. “Does it hurt?”

“Not much,” Ciri replied and looked up at the witcher next to her. She knew him well by now. Well enough that the flat expression on his face did not fool her one bit, so she rubbed his back until the false rage he was clinging to gave in and then he finally hugged her back. “Not as much as you, anyway.”

“Shut up, princess.”

Ciri hugged him a little tighter as punishment and kept on hugging him until he closed his eyes and smiled. It was a sad smile but it was the best she would get. 

“Since I’m a princess, I’m gonna order you to carry me back,” she said. “My legs are tired and you will make a fine steed.”

“You know, that’s one of the things you shouldn’t call men.”

“Whyever not?” she asked as Lambert got to his feet, catching her legs under the knees as she jumped up onto his back and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. She could see Lambert roll his eyes. “Why can’t I call you a mighty steed? Are you perhaps a lame gelding?”

“I’m gonna make Merigold have a talk with you, young lady,” Lambert grunted as he set off down the path to the river, heading back to the fortress with Ciri’s laughter in his ear.


	5. ❝can you hear me?❞

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt/OC Aen Elle. Warnings: Non-con sex slavery.

❝can you hear me?❞

Ilmalach took his helmet off and fastened it to the back of his belt before kneeling in the snow next to the fallen creature. Even when mutated, human beings were so strangely fragile. They had travelled long and far this time, and it had taken them a while to realize that they were missing one particular witcher. It had taken even longer to find him since he had simply fallen off his horse a while back and the wind had blown the snow over the tracks.

“This is no place to sleep, little wolf,” he said and reached down, shaking Geralt’s unmoving body. There was no response, so he grabbed Geralt’s armour and pulled him free from the snow. 

How fast did humans die from cold? Ilmalach frowned and pulled Geralt’s mask from his face. He was always pale, but his lips were blue now and he was not responding, so he was likely not doing well. 

Ilmalach frowned and picked Geralt up in his arms. His horse was digging for roots in the snow, and the ride back to the rest of the Hunt would be a couple of hours at best, it was cold and getting colder as night fell.

He knew the land well, so it did not take him long to find one of the many hide-outs used by the Hunt if they got stuck in a storm. They had hundreds of them, if not thousands, a vital necessity after the white frost started claiming their lands. This particular place was an old mine shaft, sloping gently upwards and going deep enough into the mountain the frost did not reach the chamber. It was outfitted with a stable for the horses, a main chamber and a chimney to remove the smoke. Ilmalach checked it with a spark of magic before he stacked up a pile of coals, then set them alight. He dragged a straw mattress in front of the fire-pit, covered it with blankets and then started removing Geralt’s armour.

Geralt was still out of it, but he was not dead as he did start shivering when Ilmalach finally got them both out of the cold clothes and under the warm blankets, so Ilmalach just wrapped his arms around him, curled up and closed his eyes for a while. 

“... let me go.”

Ilmalach opened his eyes. The coals had stopped burning, they had settled down to a red glow now and were radiating warmth. Not much time had passed, and the storm was still raging.

“No.”

Geralt twisted as best he could, but Ilmalach was not a magician or some weakling artists, he was a warrior, at least a head and a half taller than Geralt and twice the muscle. Geralt could not move an inch in any direction and soon settled down again, his warm breath brushing over Ilmalach’s chest. 

“Please let me go.”

“Stop asking.” 

There was no end to the dramatics of humans. He truly did not see the appeal of keeping them as slaves, they were weak both in body and mind. He preferred Aen Seidhe, though they were difficult to catch, their children were few and better guarded than royalty, but Geralt was something in between. A mutated human kept out of necessity, though Ilmalach rather enjoyed him and how difficult he was to break. It was why he had volunteered to go back and fetch him. 

Geralt was still struggling, which was unusual, so Ilmalach loosened his grip on him and looked down. Geralt was exhausted and his eyes glistened with unshed tears as Ilmalach pushed his head back to look at him, meeting an expression of pure despair.

“I see,” Ilmalach mumbled, watching as Geralt closed his eyes, the tears trickling down the bridge of his nose. “It is wearing off.”

Geralt did not have to reply. 

“You know my price to give you more. Are you sure you would not wish to wait until we catch up with the rest?”

Geralt shook his head and stayed down as Ilmalach sighed and sat up, reaching for his belt. He put the bottle of oil next to Geralt, then started mixing up the ingredients for the potion that would let the witcher forget. 

It was a fair exchange. Geralt was like most slaves in that respect. He hated remembering his life, preferring to ride with them in blissful ignorance, and most Aen Elle were happy to provide amnesia to their slaves for a price. Ilmalach placed the finished potion out of arm’s reach and looked back down at the witcher. He already had three fingers in himself, working at getting a fourth in as Ilmalach poured a little oil on his hand to help with the glide, slicking up his own erection.

He shook his head as Geralt tried to get up on all fours, the proper position of a slave, and pushed him back down onto his back. Geralt would not have lasted five minutes in that position, and besides, Ilmalach did not consider Geralt to be a normal slave. He was a fighter too, and as long as he could not remember his past life, he could keep up with the Wild Hunt. 

Another advantage taking him like this was that he could watch him. Watch Geralt’s much smaller frame under him trembling as he entered him, see the point he was about to scream and then order him to do so. See how the tight frown on his brow relaxed when he stopped, deep inside him, showing his mercy by letting him adjust. 

“You may touch yourself,” he said took Geralt’s right hand from his side and placed it on his flagging cock. It was not a suggestion and Geralt knew it, stroking himself until he was fully hard and only then did Ilmalach move again. 

He felt the heat in his body rise as he watched the slave warrior’s body take him, it did not take long before he saw what he so enjoyed with this particular one. He allowed Geralt to close his eyes, made sure to not be too rough, and then the pained sounds started turning into little moans of pleasure. Witchers healed quickly, and quite frankly Geralt might just as well have been a whore, he took cock so well and soon enough he spilled his seed all over his stomach and hand, and showed how well he had taken his training by immediately starting to lick his hand clean. 

“Good boy,” Ilmalach said, leaning back a little so he could grab Geralt’s ankles and push his knees back to his shoulders. This time he let Geralt hide, covering his face with his arm as Ilmalach moved up onto his knees, setting a punishing pace that finally brought himself over the edge, blanking his mind out for just a short while as he held Geralt down, forced him to take everything given to him. He closed his eyes and listened to Geralt’s frantic breathing as he came down from the high, looked down and met the odd, golden eyes for just a moment before Geralt remembered his place and looked away. 

“You almost spoiled your chance there,” Ilmalach mumbled, sliding out from Geralt’s arse and then wiping his cock clean between Geralt’s thighs. 

“I am sorry,” Geralt whispered, and breathed a sigh in relief when Ilmalach stretched out on the mattress next to him, only waiting for a moment before handing him the little bottle. Geralt opened it and drank it as if it held the cure for a horrible disease, and Ilmalach figured it was not very far from the truth. 

“Go outside and clean yourself up before you pass out,” Ilmalach said, grabbing Geralt’s underwear and throwing it at his face. The potion would work quickly, and it would knock him out for a little while. He watched Geralt stumble away, the slight draft as the door to the mine opened. He could barely make out the witcher in the moonlight beyond, squatting down and cleaning himself up as best he could with hay and snow before putting his underwear back on. 

It was all predictable. All up until the point that a white light flared in the air behind Geralt and the witcher vanished in a flash of magic that was all too familiar. Ilmalach grabbed his sword and stood, but he knew it was much, much too late. He could smell the magic now, feel it crawl all over him like spiders in the dark. Only one being in the universe could do such magic.

“Cirilla.”


	6. ❝you're going to do WHAT with WHAT?❞

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer/Lambert, R for sex.

❝you're going to do WHAT with WHAT?❞

“Oh please, Lambert,” Yennefer said as she guided her belongings into the top tower of Kaer Morhen through the portal with practiced ease. “You promised to help me with the prototypes.”

“For your… for your new shop, yes, but…” Lambert gestured helplessly at the display-cases. “Yen, what the fuck?”

“Blame our darling Ciri for giving me the idea,” Yennefer said as she spread a few milky white sheets onto a chaise lounge. “She visited a world where these things are very popular, a world in which female sexual satisfaction is considered not only an actual thing, but paramount to a healthy life.”

“But I’m a guy, Yen,” Lambert said, pointing at himself as if he needed to illustrate the fact. “I don’t have female bits.”

“Exactly, we must all be equal,” Yennefer said as she straightened up and stepped towards him, raising a perfectly sculpted eyebrow very slightly in amusement as she backed him into her desk. “You see, Lambert, sex is only a part of it. Sex is power in the hands of those who know how to wield it, I get contacts among the highest and the lowest of society, I know the most intimate stories of broken whores, impotent princes and unsatisfied queens, I got my fingers in a lot of metaphorical pies due to this work. And you promised to help me expand the product line, it just so happens that this particular product line is aimed at men.”

“I thought… I thought it was magic crystals or some crap-”

“Crap?” 

“Not crap,” Lambert said quickly as Yennefer pushed his jacket off. He closed the buttons of his shirt that she opened, only stopping when she tapped the tip of his nose with a slight spark of blue magic. 

“Lambert, dear, how long have we been friends?” Yennefer asked, and ran her hands down his clothed chest. 

“For about fifteen seconds three years ago?” Lambert said and contemplated crawling over the desk, dashing across the room and taking his chances surviving the fall from the open window. “Why the hell don’t you ask Geralt? Or Eskel or even Roche? That guy would love a thorough cavity search, if Iorveth’s stories are-”

“Exactly, my dear,” Yennefer said, smiling sweetly at him as she started on his buttons again. “I need someone who is initially sceptical about the experience of such pleasures. Vernon Roche would probably eagerly bend over for a greased up cacti, he would be no help to me.”

“But Geralt…”

“You are perfectly aware of our arrangement,” Yennefer said patiently as she slipped her hands under his shirt and pushed it off his shoulders. “He can have his fun, I will have mine. As far as I have been told you have already benefited from it.”

“But…” Lambert looked into mischievous, violet eyes and shut up. 

“Lambert. Out of all the men I know and trust to aid me with this, you are the one least likely to love having anything at all happening to your arse. Now, I will not force you to endure it, of course.”

“Of course…” Lambert mumbled.

“I will not,” Yennefer said and wrapped her arms around his waist. “Why would I? It would entirely spoil my research.”

“I don’t mind, it just… feels weird.”

“That is perfect, it means you will not be overcome with lust, which will only help.”

“Fuck me, I’m gonna agree to this, ain’t I…”

Yennefer smiled, grabbed his buttocks through the leather trousers and gave them a good shake to Lambert’s abject horror. “Perfect. Thank you, dear. Now get your clothes off and lay down on the chaise lounge, please.”

“On the what?”

“The fancy sofa, Lambert.”

“You could have said,” Lamberg grumbled as he kicked his boots and trousers off, sitting on the crisp sheets with his legs crossed and his arms folded over his bare chest, watching Yennefer bring a silver box through the portal. She smiled sweetly as she pulled a chair over and sat on it, placing the box on her lap and opening it. 

“Now, what I wish for you to do is to give me your immediate reactions to the item I give to you, and then I wish for you to try and figure out how it might be used for your pleasure,” Yennefer said, ignoring Lambert who was dying from embarrassment on the chaise lounge next to her. “Focus, Lambert. Now, you will say what you think, no matter what it is, and use the item to the best of your ability and tell me how it makes you feel. Here.”

Lambert looked up from where he had been hiding his face in his arms, and dropped it back down again. 

“That goes in my ass, doesn’t it.”

“You got it in one, well done,” Yennefer said with a brilliant smile. “Please take it, it is essential that you handle it yourself.”

Lambert turned his head, glared at the twisted, bent metal, held his hand out and let Yennefer place it in his hand. It was heavy, it had one larger part that somewhat resembled a water-drop, it was connected to what reminded me of a curved sword-guard, giving it a vague T shape. It was very smooth. 

“It’s not very big,” Lambert mumbled as he got up onto his elbows. “It matters which direction you put it in?”

“Hmm, good point,” Yennefer said, making notes in a little notebook. “Would a written instruction do? Something like… the upwards curve should face the testicles?”

“But what’s upwards on this thing.”

“A diagram, then. A simple illustration.” Yennefer scribbled in her notebook, then turned it and showed the simple drawing to Lambert who immediately hid his face again. 

“Seriously, Yen, you’re gonna give me a heart-attack.”

“But it is explanatory?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, perhaps a note regarding appropriate lubrication and hygiene,” Yennefer said, sounding positively inspired as she placed a jar next to the chaise lounge. She looked at him expectantly. “Please, have at it.”

“Do you have to watch?” 

“Oh yes.”

He watched her smile, looked at the curvy little toy, then dipped the tip of it into the lubrication. He dropped his head down on his arm, closed his eyes and reached back to push it in between his buttcheeks. 

“Use your words, Lambert.”

“It’s kind of cold,” Lambert mumbled, spreading his legs slightly. “But it’s… it’s not too big. I guess.”

“Would bigger be better?”

Lambert shook his head. “Maybe for others. Geralt’d take anything he could fit I think.”

“Yes, he would,” Yennefer said dreamily, still jotting down notes. “How is the weight?”

“Intrusive,” Lambert said without thinking, biting into his arm for a moment as the widest part of the toy passed his tight muscles, slipping into place. “It’s… It kinda makes itself push in, if that makes sense.”

“How is the fit?”

“Snug?” Lambert said as he shifted his hips experimentally. “Very… prostate focused. Oh fuck.”

“And the temperature?”

“Very, very warm now.”

He almost jumped off the stupid sofa when delicate fingers pressed at the toy and made it shift very slightly in him, one of the curved arms pressing just behind his balls, caressing his prostate from both the outside and within. There was no pain, no stretch, just weight and heat and movement and he gasped when the toy seemed to push the pre-cum out of his cock as Yennefer set a slow, steady rhythm. 

“Definitely an instructional leaflet,” Yennefer mumbled as Lambert tried to choke some high-pitched moans with his hands. “Do you feel any discomfort?”

Lambert shook his head, and wondered if this was what made Roche sit on anything even remotely erection-looking whenever he got the chance. Yennefer was merciless, shifting the toy inside him in slow, fantastic torture which he hoped would last forever until he could not take it anymore. He half expected to be stopped and held down when he turned around and sat up, but Yennefer backed off and let him sit for a moment, hugging his legs to his chest, trying to catch his breath and keep his sanity intact. 

“Too much, sweetheart?” Yennefer asked as she sat down next to him a few moments later. “Perhaps a warning that the first session might be overwhelming?”

“Maybe, yeah?” 

“Good,” Yennefer said as she placed a hand on Lambert’s knee, and his brain stopped working entirely when he noticed that she too was entirely naked. “Now, let’s test how it works for a couple.”

“What?”

“Dick out for science, Lambert,” Yennefer said as she pushed him back onto the chaise lounge so she could straddle his hips. He whimpered as he found she was dripping wet already, slicking his already wet cock further as she rubbed her clit along the length of his twitching limb. 

“Science’s gonna be…” he managed to say before she guided his cock into herself with a couple of fingers and sat down, taking him all the way in at once, “... gonna be five seconds if you…”

“Interesting,” Yennefer said as she rolled her hips, the motion making Lambert’s hips move as well, in turn making the toy move inside him. He grabbed her hips, was about to give her a warning but it was much too late and coming made it worse as his muscles tightened up, making the toy pulse inside him. 

He was pretty sure he screamed.

When he next opened his eyes, it was with Yennefer still on his lap, his half hard limb still inside her. She was scribbling furiously in her notebook which she had placed on his chest, and she had a pen in one hand and a stopwatch in the other.

“Now Geralt’s refractory period is at precisely three minutes after round one,” she said, referring back in her notes to a table with several graphs and markers. “Eskel’s is at an average three minutes and fifteen seconds, and they both report that yours is likely at about three minutes as well, accounting for age. How do you feel right now?”

Lambert just stared at her, put his hands on her thighs and pushed her back onto his rock hard limb. Yennefer clicked the little button on the stopwatch and looked at it. 

“Two minutes and ten seconds,” she reported with a self-satisfied little grin at Lambert. “How delightful.”


	7. ❝that outfit looks nice on you, where'd you get it?❞

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ves and Roche. Warnings: E for lots of dead, abused elves, murder and corpse-mutilation.

❝that outfit looks nice on you, where'd you get it?❞

“... no.”

Roche sighed and passed the bottle to Ves. She took it and glared at him, but it was half hearted. 

“Why not, I’ve heard it said many times in the city.”

“Not from a guy to a woman, Roche, not in any kind of flirtatious situation,” Ves said, wiping the back of her hand over her brow. “Fucking hell, for having come as far as you have, you’re really shit at this.”

“I never had to suck up to women before,” Roche said, taking the bottle back from Ves and drinking deeply. He tilted his head, looked at Ves and sought for inspiration. In only boots, trousers so tight she might as well have painted stripes on her bare legs and a shirt that was hanging onto her sweat-slick breasts only because the seams happened to get caught on her stiff nipples, he figured any normal man would have an endless source of compliments to pay her. He knew how it looked to other men, and he knew how other men looked at her, but for him his imagination shut down at that point.

“Look, it’s easy,” Ves said as she jumped back down into the pit and started digging again. “You just have to relax and treat it like a game, not mix actual feelings into it. I mean, you managed some half-arsed things with that sorceress you carried around, didn’t you?”

“But that was in the heat of the moment,” Roche complained as he placed the bottle safely to the side and joined Ves in the pit, stabbing at the clay with a vengeance. “I didn’t mean any of it.”

“See, you got the hang of it already. Okay, stop, look at me.”

He paused one foot up on the shoulder of his shovel, watching Ves with great suspicion as she looked him up and down and winked at him. “Hey there, handsome, hit me up if you want to put that fine body to better use.”

Roche stared at her hopeful expression.

“Thanks for the nightmares, Ves, I only have about nine thousand of them in my backlog already thanks to you.”

She groaned and shook her head, flinging more dirt out of the pit. “Fuck you, Vernon Roche.”

“Yeah, fuck me,” Roche agreed, letting the heat of the embarassment give him strength to work through the evening until dark fell. 

“This is deep enough for Loredo’s squirrels,” Ves declared as she tossed the shovel onto the grass and climbed out of the pit. “I’m exhausted. And cold.”

“Just close up your shirt.”

“No.”

Roche grunted unhappily as he climbed out of the pit and wiped his hands on his shirt. 

“Truth be told, Ves, just… get out of here,” Roche said. He could not see her expression in the low light of the lamps, but the hand on his shoulder spoke volumes. “Start gathering and training men along the coast as we agreed, I’ll do the same inland, we will meet at the cave come spring. It is better if we do not both leave the same day. I can finish this.”

“You’ll be here all night, Roche.”

“Just go,” Roche said and smiled as he shook his chaperon out and put the resulting hood on to get some more warmth out of it. “I can spend the time trying to think up new pick-up lines to amuse you with when we meet again.”

“Alright, one condition, though,” Ves said. “You stay safe, you hear?”

“You too, Ves,” Roche said and managed to force the muscles of his face into something resembling a smile as she nodded at him and marched away towards Flotsam. 

“And don’t recruit with your tits out!”

He grinned as she gave him a well practiced, one finger salute, shook his head and started dragging dead elves into the grave. 

It was really too bad they had not properly smoked out all of Loredo’s rat nest of an operation when they had the excuse to do so. Scoia’tael were terrorists, sure, but no one deserved this kind of suffering. They had essentially starved to death, locked up and forgotten in jail cells, or died or as good as died from abuse and infection locked up in filthy private rooms. He had found a few that were still breathing, but they had given no protest or shown any kind of fear or signs of pain as he put an end to their misery with a well aimed blade, they just quietly bled out without any fuss at all.

He found no joy in it as he pulled what was essentially skin and bones over to the edge of the grave and placed them on the ground side by side. It was a small grave, too small for the ten corpses, so he spent a while arranging them as best he could as the moonlight lit up the clearing, then stood on the edge of the grave and lit his pipe since alcohol was out of the question. 

He really had buried too many people lately. The men he lost to Dethmold had no better graves than this, the birds and the rot had gotten to most of them before he managed to get them all into the ground and now he was making sure a bunch of dead elves looked comfortable before he fed them to the worms. The tightness gripping his chest made his eyes water, and trying to hold the tears back set off the grief and keeping that at bay proved to be impossible as it meant not breathing, and he had to breathe or he would fall and join the squirrels in the dark, cold hole in the ground. 

“Oh fuck it all,” he whispered, refusing to give in just yet, so he wiped his face on his filthy sleeve, bit his pipe until the clay almost cracked and grabbed the showel, dumping dark dirt onto the dead in the pit. He had a job to do. He would finish it. 

He would have finished it, if one of the corpses had not suddenly raised a hand as soil spilled onto its face. 

Perhaps it was just a reflex. Roche sniffed and tried again, and once more the corpse shuddered as a lump of soil landed on its chest. In a moment of insanity Roche considered just ignoring it, he wanted to cover the elf in soil so he would not have to look at it move anymore, but now it was breathing and he had seen it try to shield itself twice. Roche had plenty of nightmares, that was true, but he was not sure he could have lived with the image of an elf being buried alive by his own hands so he cursed, climbed into the grave again, tried not to step on any of them and reached the one that was still breathing, damn him. 

Roche reached for his knife and almost screamed as he realised it had been left with his other weapons up beyond the edge of the grave, turned to get it and there was a horrible crunch as he stepped on a dead elf’s arm, the sudden give of bone under his boot made him slip and he caught himself on another corpse just in time to hear a groan from the one still alive. 

It was too much. He did not hear what he was yelling but it was loud, he could hardly see down in the dark but his hands found the elf’s throat and squeezed the thin, fragile neck but he had no more chance going through with it now than the time the brothel owner tried to make him drown a new-born in his mother’s bath-water to toughen him up. As the elf opened his eyes and looked at him, as he saw fear, pain and that unmistakable wish to survive the very last of Vernon Roche’s defenses fell and he let go of the elf’s throat, gathered him up in his arms and held him close, clinging to the only evidence of life he could find as his mind, body and soul crumbled under the weight of his grief for the dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll write a fixer upper for this one later.


	8. ❝is this seat saved for anyone?❞

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zoltan/Dandelion, rated R for naughty bits.

❝is this seat saved for anyone?❞

“Ach, here we go,” Zoltan grumbled into his ale as Dandelion bolted out of his seat and vanished into the night, his crimson cape billowing magnificently behind him, leaving a very confused looking local patron holding a stack of gwent cards and a mug of ale in his wake. 

“Don’t mind him, lad,” Zoltan said as he nodded at the vacant chair. “You sit yourself down, it just happens our dear minstrel’s got himself into a bit of trouble with the ladies, if ye ken my meaning.”

“Oh, I see,” the man said, smiling nervously as he sat down and shuffled the deck in his hands. “She must have been quite the girl to upset a man so much.”

“Aye,” Zoltan agreed, and to his credit he did not add that he had no clue which one of Dandelion’s multiple conquests of the last few months it was that had upset him this time. “That she was.”

He stared into his half empty mug and compiled a top three list of possible candidates. Out of the corner of his eye he eventually noticed the vulture-like movements of the local gwent players circling the table, eyeing the man’s gold edged Nilfgaard deck with big, hungry eyes, so eventually he just drained his mug, picked up his axe and left them to it. 

Dandelion never ran far when he first ran, not unless he was actually terrified. When he ran for the dramatic effect, he usually did so with the idea in mind that someone would come and find him and give him attention, and in Zoltan’s mental manage-Dandelion-manual, being found and comforted after doing a dramatic exit usually did the trick.

He frowned when he did not immediately find the bard either standing forlornly in the moonlight on some narrow bridge, nor was he draped with artistic despair up against a rustic drainpipe, he was not in the small patch of public park looking at a single, fragile bloom, and he could not hear the lute either. 

Zoltan frowned. This was downright worrying. 

Fortunately, asking people if they had seen Dandelion was easy. A simple description like asking for the human equivalent of a competitive peacock having been given free reign in a carnival supply store usually did the trick, so he followed nods and pointed fingers out of the little town and to the seashore where all traces ended. 

Fortunately it was late summer, and it was warm, there was no real risk of anything having happened to him as they had left the excitement of Loch Muinne behind, but it was best to be on the safe side. There were a few ruins some way down the shoreline, and if there was one thing spectres and necrophages and sad poets liked, it was some good old ruins. 

As he got closer, he saw Dandelion. The bard had not managed to quite leave the theatrics behind, he sat on a fallen column of elven make, his silhouette framed by a flowing arch, and he had a small lamp by his feet to add that mysterious, soft light glow. Zoltan sighed and shook his head before walking over to him and sat down next to him on the fallen pillar. 

Dandelion sat with his lute resting on his lap, slightly slouched in his tragic-poet-position with a single, picture perfect tear trickling slowly down his cheek from the corner of his right eye, just enough to highlight his tinted eyelashes, not enough to make him blotchy. 

“Cheer up, lad,” Zoltan said, resting his elbows on his knees. “She’ll either come around or she won’t, besides there’s a lot of other lasses you haven’t had a go at yet, so ain’t all bad?”

“I’m sorry, what?” Dandelion asked, his voice choked up and not at all as breathy and musical as Zoltan had expected. 

“Um… this is about Missandy, right?” Zoltan asked, suddenly feeling a bit off balance at Dandelion’s question. “Ye ken, the lass who stood you up when we came back here, on account of her best friend carrying one of yer more intimate and personal poems rather close to her heart, if I may be so bold to say.”

“... who?” Dandelion asked, his lip quivering as he turned to look at the dwarf by his side. 

“So the buxom lass is not the reason for coming here?” Zoltan asked, trying to get to the bottom of his friend’s malady. 

“No, she was not,” Dandelion said and looked at the full moon climbing along the horizon. “No, this is entirely of my own making. I was attempting to put into words our adventure of the past few months, the tale, the songs, elves and dwarves uniting under a dragon, all the tragedy and hope and love and despair and I… I believe I broke my own heart in the process of it all, Zoltan.”

“Come now, lad, it can’t be all that bad,” Zoltan said, but as he moved his hand to clap Dandelion companionably on the back, the bard moved gracefully until he was on his knees in front of Zoltan, taking one of the dwarf’s hands in his and pressing it to his chest. 

“Can you not feel it, Zoltan, the flutter and the grind of a heart torn beyond mending?”

“That’s in fact not physically poss-”

“All warmth left me as the thought entered my mind,” Dandelion continued, ignoring Zoltan’s patient attempt at providing scientific reason as to why Dandelion’s heart could not actually be torn in any way. 

“A chill entered my mortal flesh-”

“That’s what ye get for wearing tights.”

“-and I saw before me my own death, for I am mortal, so very mortal and past my prime,” Dandelion whispered in despair. “One day, perhaps soon, I shall die, and if the violence of this wonderful, glorious world will not claim me, then time and the withering of my flesh and bones will.”

“You ain’t looking a day over twenty, lad,” Zoltan said, wiping the tears from Dandelion’s face with a rough thumb. “You got plenty of time.”

“But not enough, never enough,” Dandelion said as he took one of Zoltan’s hands and pressed it to his cheek, looking up at Zoltan with the kind of beautiful, sad puppy eyes that would triple a prostitute’s income in a flash. “Beauty might fade, Zoltan. I know this, and I worry not. Yet as I saw Geralt once more in battle, throwing himself into danger for me, for us, for the good of the world, where it once made me feel a thrill of excitement, see the outline of a future ballad, now I feel only fear as I know his life might be so easily lost to us, I feel the pain of it and I know that even though he might live, he will outlive me. Our days are numbered, so few and wasted, the future slipping out of my hands like -...”

“Now perk your ears and listen to me, you glorified tambourine,” Zoltan said as he grabbed Dandelion’s shoulder with his free hand and shook him gently. “You might be as fragile as a butterfly or whatever you feel like comparing yourself to, and I know that grumpy git’s the love of your life even if making you admit it would take tattooing I-killed-Foltest into your forehead and handing you to Vernon Roche for a fortnight, but here’s the thing.”

He put both hands on Dandelion’s face and made sure the bard was actually listening to him when he spoke, and not delving into some poetic inner monologue. “Neither of you are -alone-, and never will be. Something happens to you, there’s a bunch of us gonna look after Geralt. If he dies, we’ll look after you. Just like we did after the pogrom, we’ll look after ye both.”

“Oh, Zoltan,” Dandelion whimpered and threw himself into Zoltan’s embrace. 

“That kinda broken heart, aye,” Zoltan mumbled and smiled as Dandelion expertedly worked around his beard and licked into Zoltan’s mouth, desperate for any kind of affection Zoltan was willing to give him. That was the trouble with Dandelion, all in all, he was so very physical in his affections but also aware how such might drive people away, so he did not dare shower Geralt with all of it in case the witcher ended up resenting him, and the end result was a pining, love struck bard overcompensating by spreading it out on everyone else. 

The positive was that Dandelion had gotten a lot of practice and had built quite the skill-set over the years. Zoltan had been too focused on the teasing artistry of Dandelion’s tongue on his own to even been aware of his codpiece being untied and his breeches loosened by deft fingers, not until he had Dandelion’s fingertips teasing the length of his cock. Dandelion moaned in harmony with Zoltan’s groan as Zoltan’s erection hardened, straining against the soft fabric and the palm of Dandelion’s hand. 

“That gonna cheer you up, laddie?” Zoltan asked as he pulled back enough to get his mouth free to form words. Dandelion nodded as Zoltan brushed his thumb over the bard’s moustache, slick and shiny with spit, Dandelion moaned as he got a thick, calloused thumb into his mouth, knelt in the sand and watched as Zoltan pushed his clothes down enough to reveal his cock. 

“That’s it,” Zoltan mumbled as he pushed Dandelion’s hat off and worked his fingers into Dandelion’s soft hair, not quite pushing but letting him feel the weight of his hand as he guided the tip of his cock into Dandelion’s wet, hot mouth. “That’s gonna shut ye up good n’ proper.”

Dandelion was either not listening, or he did not care. Zoltan tried to breathe calmly through his nose as Dandelion proved that his clever tongue could not only twist words and melody into a beautiful song, but it could also add something quite spectacular to the normally mediocre blowjobs humans could provide. Dwarves were short and stout in every way, but as the saying went, a dwarven hammer was a force to be reckoned with. Dandelion would have to break his jaw to get more than half of Zoltan’s cock into his mouth, but he made up for it using his tongue and his oh so very clever hands, teasing and stroking, licking and sucking as if this was what he was born to do. 

“Let’s soothe that sweet throat, eh,” Zoltan grumbled as he grabbed Dandelion’s hair and pulled him back a little, only letting him at the very tip of his cock as he grabbed his own limb in a meaty fist and applied the pressure he needed, bringing himself off hard and fast, he tightened his grip on Dandelion’s hair until the bard gasped, just in time to coat the pink, trembling tongue with his cum. Dandelion swallowed what he could, and licked Zoltan’s fingers clean when he swept up the droplets that had trickled down into his goatee, making sure to catch every drop of it. 

“That’s better, ain’t it,” Zoltan said, and Dandelion nodded as Zoltan pulled his clothes back on and moved down to sit on the sand as well, his back resting against the fallen pillar behind them. “Now you just get those damned fancy pants open or I’ll be taking a knife to them.”

Zoltan had not actually imagined that Dandelion would be wearing actual stockings. But underneath the garish, poofy hoses he was wearing thigh high sky blue stockings tied to a belt with silk ribbons, and over it a slip of silk tied at the hips to preserve his frankly non-existent modesty. It was in light blue, so thin as to be nearly transparent, and it clung to every curve. Zoltan blinked as Dandelion was about to open the belt, grabbed the poet’s wrists in one hand and shook his head.

“You keep that on, laddie,” he said, after a few false starts, patting Dandelion’s hip where he lay splayed over Zoltan’s lap. “We’ll work around it.”

“Do you like it, Zoltan?” Dandelion whispered up at him as Zoltan pulled the string holding one side of the flimsy undergarments attacked at his hip, letting it fall open. 

“It’s new,” Zoltan said, and that was all he was going to admit. Dandelion still blushed, he probably understood the compliment for what it was, the pale blue silk only highlighted the subtle glow of his soft, smooth skin and made him seem all the more delicate in contrast to Zoltan’s big hand rubbing him roughly between the legs. Dandelion rested his head to Zotan’s shoulder and watched as well as Zoltan covered his cock and balls with his palm and let the tip of his middle finger tease at his tight, pink little entrance. 

“Oh, just like that,” Dandelion whimpered and grabbed Zoltan’s wrist to keep him exactly where he was. “Stay just like that, right there.”

“Anything you want,” Zoltan said and watched as Dandelion rolled his hips, pressing himself up against Zoltan’s hand with mindless abandon until the song of his moans told Zoltan he was very, very close. Knowing just how upset Dandelion would be if he shot cum all over his nice doublet, Zoltan changed his grip and made sure all of it ended up in the sand as Dandelion came with a soft scream, a pitch perfect high C if Zoltan was any judge. 

When it was all over, Zoltan wrapped his arms around the swooning bard and together they watched the moon rise and listened to the far-away sounds of the city die down as it too prepared for a night of peaceful rest. 

“Zoltan?”

“Hm?”

“Would you come to Novigrad with me?”


	9. ❝you'll be ok, i promise.❞

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciaran/Roche. R for rape-talk, torture-talk, and awkward sex.

❝you'll be ok, i promise.❞

The first time Ciaran heard the promise spoken out loud was in a deep, dark hole in the ground surrounded by his dead kin. He had thought he had wanted to join them in their peaceful, eternal sleep, but some treacherous spark of elven stubbornness had made him react when the threat of being buried alive became real. When the hooded, filthy temerian came at him, screaming at the top of his lungs, choking him, part of him wanted to give in and let it happen but he had opened his eyes and seen nothing but fear, grief and hopelessness behind a crumbling barrier of rage and lies and Ciaran did not want to die, he wanted to breathe.

He did not know how long they stayed in the pit, the temerian holding him as if both of them would die if he let go, and considering the past few months, that was likely not far from the truth. 

The man repeated the words over and over again as he eventually calmed down, then picked Ciaran up as carefully as he could, made his way across the dead bodies and lifted him out of the pit, placing him on the cold grass in the dusky moonlight. Moments later he was wrapped up in a worn, blue coat with blue striped sleeves, a dark brown hood was pulled over his head and overly careful fingers made sure his ears were comfortable before the sound of dirt hitting the dead resumed. 

“You’ll be okay, you’ll live,” Vernon Roche said as he put Ciaran down on a blanket in front of the fireplace in the rented room. It was in an inn, not in Flotsam but further north along the road towards Ban Gleann, in a small roadside village that made a living keeping horses for couriers. It had taken them the better part of the day to get there once Ciaran proved to be sturdy enough that a ride would not kill him instantly, but he was too exhausted to protest as Roche got him out of the overcoat, the hood, and what remained of his trousers, put a blanket over him and then disappeared for a little while. 

It would take Ciaran a while to understand the routine that had started that day. 

Roche returned a little while later carrying a tray of things that smelled like food, trailing a girl who carried two buckets of steaming, warm water, thanked her, took the buckets and what looked like a small mountain of small towels and knelt next to Ciaran. 

Roche started at the very top. He used a wet towel to soak through the filth and blood stuck in Ciaran’s hair, picked scabs and dirt away for what seemed like an eternity before lathering up some soap to clean the exposed wounds one by one, rinsing them clean, patting them, dry, then adding an herbal smelling ointment on them that Ciaran found vaguely familiar. The process repeated for his ears, Roche cleaning infection out of the cuts in the cartilage where Loredo’s men had repeatedly threatened to cut them off, then continued on his face and neck. 

It hurt in more ways than one to have someone go over every single injury, cleaning them, adding salve and -seeing-, but it was all overshadowed by pain and the feeling of having the filth washed away from his body. He had not been clean in months. Having his arms washed felt amazing, even the biting pain of having soap cutting into the wounds and scars around his wrists felt like the first sip of spring water. He watched as Roche cleaned his fingers one by one and by the end decided to close his eyes. 

Roche did not ask permission or apologize, which was for the best. Ciaran could not have given him permission, he could not have handled an apology, but the methodical cleaning and treatment was clinical and distanced. He knew who Vernon Roche was, he was the commander of the Blue Stripes and knew more about torture than most, he seemed to know precicely how to treat the damages as well as how to inflict them.

It made things easier. He could not even begin to imagine what this would have been like if it had been an elf doing this, someone he knew, someone who would get angry and emotional over it and scream for vengeance or demand answers. Roche did none of those things. He finished the job, wrapped him up in a clean blanket, picked him up and put him into bed. 

The next few hours were spent with Ciaran propped up against a pillow, Roche sitting next to him and feeding him some broth with a spoon until he almost fell asleep, and when he woke up in the middle of the night with the sound of a jail cell slamming shut lingering in his memories, he found himself on his side, facing a firm, strong back. He curled up against it and fell asleep again.

“You’ll be alright,” Roche said as he hauled Ciaran up onto the landing. Ciaran had almost collapsed on the stairs of the inn that had been their home for the past month, but Roche had caught him as he always did. 

“Months in prison,” Ciaran breathed as Roche opened the door to their room and helped him inside. “I survived that. I’ll survive you.”

“Never doubted that,” Roche replied as he put Ciaran down on the floor by the fireplace to rest after a long day of training. He took his time to light it while Ciaran got out of the shirt and pants on his own. Roche pulled the buckets of warm water closer, knelt beside him, and started on the routine. 

Ciaran closed his eyes as imaginary filth was washed off his face, enjoyed the attention paid to his ears, and blinked his eyes open as Roche started on his neck. 

“I never asked,” he said softly as Roche patted his face and neck dry. “Why are you doing this?”

“I have helped a few through this in the past,” Roche said quietly as he started on Ciaran’s arms. “And as you probably know it might as well have been me who did this to you. I know about torture.”

“This is not torture.”

“I hope not,” Roche said as he paid particular attention to cleaning Ciaran’s cuticles, before scrubbing the sweat off Ciaran’s back. “Torture’s… not just about the damage done, the pain. It has much more to do with fear. You start with fear of pain, then fear of more pain, sure it can be effective, but not for someone prepared to die for the cause. So you draw it out, leave them in their own filth, leave them covered up in blood and that attracts rats and rats are very effective torture.” 

Ciaran watched as Roche swept the wet cloth down his chest, over healed ribs and fresh scars, down towards his crotch. It should have been weird, having Roche clean him there, but it was part of the routine and Roche seemed like he might as well have been cleaning Ciaran’s arm. 

“Then you remove the safety of you being there,” Roche said as he patted Ciaran dry, both of them ignoring the slight interest Ciaran’s cock had started to show the last few days, and then continued on his legs. “You stop showing interest. Torture’s half hearted, those who are into raping their vicitims just… might open their belt, stare at you for a moment, and then just leave, you’re no longer worth that kind of attention. Maybe a whole day without food. Showing surprise that you’re still alive. A prisoner’s life relies entirely on the captor, and that’s something we can use to great effect. Starving to death and kicking rats away until you can’t do it anymore, that’s a horrible way to go.”

Roche paused when he had dried Ciaran’s feet and just sat there, holding Ciaran’s feet in his hands and stroking his thumbs over the marks where nails had been hammered into his heels. 

“You have not harmed me once,” Ciaran said as he leaned forward slightly. “You keep me well fed, -very- clean, warm and never alone, you’re not keeping me in shackles, you’re helping me run again.”

“Routine,” Roche said, and blinked in surprise when Ciaran took a washcloth and leaned forward, passing it over Roche’s brow until the frown relaxed. 

“I still don’t understand why, but I am grateful,” Ciaran said. “I should not be, but I am.”

“I know,” Roche replied as Ciaran cleaned the dust off his face, stroking his hands down his smooth skin. “Your life relies on me, and I know it. It creates a bond. When you are well, it’ll break. You’ll go back to your people when you’re ready.”

“Promise?”

“I promise,” Roche said, seeming lost in thought for a few moments before he wrapped the blanket around Ciaran’s shoulders, helping him up and over to the bed for supper. It was two cups of bone broth, like every night, before he got his hands on something more solid. 

He was allowed more solid food day by day, and today he was given the same food Roche was eating. Rabbit stew with fresh baked bread and butter. They ate in companionable silence, as they did most nights, then Roche took the buckets and the bowls away and returned some predictable few minutes later, taking his boots and trousers off before carefully getting into the bed, back turned to Ciaran as always. 

It had all been according to routine, but since Ciaran was so deeply set into the routine, it made every single thing that was not fitting in stand out like a sore thumb. Roche was not breathing like he usually did, there was a tension in his chest that Ciaran had never seen before. Logic said he should leave well enough alone, but whatever bond it was that had formed between them refused to comply. He gave into it and wrapped an arm around Roche’s chest, added a little bit of pressure and found no resistance in him at all as Ciaran turned him over on his back with ease. 

He looked down at the man underneath him and even in the dark he could see the same pain he had seen in the pit all those weeks ago. Roche did not move at first or make any kind of protest as Ciaran pressed his body up along Roche’s side and tucked the blanket around him as well, but just before Ciaran was about to fall asleep he felt a hand settling on his shoulder and the tension slipping away as Roche finally took a deep, proper breath. 

It became part of the routine. 

“If you fall down, I’m gonna be right properly pissed off at you,” Roche growled from the ground beneath the tree Ciaran was trying to climb. 

“Climbing trees builds strength and agility,” Ciaran said as he looked down. He was dangling by one arm, the branch under him had fallen and almost hit Roche in the head, no doubt adding to his foul mood. 

“I mean it,” Roche said. “I might even get sarcastic.”

“Ooh,” Ciaran replied, feigning terror as he gripped the branch with his other hand and hauled himself up. “What can you do, come up here and stop me?”

“I could,” Roche said, and he sounded like he meant it. 

“You might keep up with elves on the ground, but you’re not a match for a squirrel in the trees, Vernon Roche.”

He managed to move his leg up, catch some solid bark with his heel so he could get on top of the moss-slick branch and into relative safety. He blinked in surprise when the tree shuddered slightly, making him looked down.

It was said that no-one but the blue stripes could keep up with elves in the forest, and Vernon Roche had been the best. Ciaran recalled a few chases where he was pretty sure the only reason they managed to escape was because Roche had no real intention of killing them once they were deep enough in the forest for his liking, and now the guy was climbing the tree like he had done nothing else all his life. 

“Oh crap,” Ciaran whispered, got to his feet and scurried around the trunk of the tree and onto another branch just as Roche came within grabbing distance. He ran two steps, kicked away as hard as he could, grabbed some leaves to break his fall and landed softly on the moss covered, fallen log that lay propped up against a boulder on the ground below. He ran up it, jumped into the next tree and felt two branches snap under his feet before he found one that would take his weight and let him climb the tree, and just as he was making his way up, Roche was at his heels again. 

Ciaran had never had to work this hard at running away all his life. He made jumps that would scare the living daylights out of anyone else, climbs that would have made any follower give up just by looking, he chose the most terrifying paths he could possibly find and still Roche kept up with him. Almost caught him. It had been three months now, with potions and medicine and Roche’s unrelenting training and care he had regained most of his old strength and had only scars and nightmares to remind him of his imprisonment.

The dead leaves on the ground were slippery under his feet, as if the wet, old planks on the little old bridge were not treacherous enough. He stumbled across the bridge and could both hear and feel Roche accelerate behind him. 

It felt amazing, he felt like a proper elf again. Adrenaline rushing through him, the crisp air promising snow in the mountains, feeling how a body he thought was beyond repair responded, if he was not almost out of breath he would be screaming it out loud for everyone to hear as he darted around trees, dodged branches and leaped from boulder to boulder. 

He gasped when Roche suddenly caught up with him, he must have taken a different turn as there was no other way the man could manage to practically grab him out of the air and haul him into a small cave-like structure under a crumbled log farm building. 

“Wh-” Ciaran started but Roche held him down, one hand firm over Ciaran’s mouth and the other pinning his arms to his body. Ciaran whined but fell silent as he noticed Roche’s wide-eyed, fixed stare. 

Then he heard it. Movement, everywhere around them. Roche did not move, he hardly breathed as a couple of dogs started fighting not even ten feet away, then hurriedly turned his face away as horses and carriages started passing by. When Ciaran relaxed, Roche let go of his mouth and touched a finger to his own lips needlessly. 

“Who?” Ciaran whispered, his voice no more than a breath in the narrow space between them. 

“Redanians,” Roche whispered back. 

“Passing through?”

Roche shook his head and whispered, “Move back. Slow.”

Ciaran nodded and moved backwards, deeper into the shadows and on to what seemed to be a pile of old, dry grass, curling up as far away from the opening as they could as men started dismounting. There was shouting in the distance, horns blowing, and then unpacking. 

“They’re trapping us,” Ciaran whispered, watching as a huge tent was set up by the opening, blocking out the light. The Redanians were camping low in the land, making use of the terrain, being smart, in fact. 

“It’s fine, just be quiet,” Roche whispered. “They’ll leave in the morning, if we can’t make it out by then.”

Ciaran shivered as he watched the tent blocking their escape being filled with field-beds and equipment, folding tables and chairs, and soon enough dozens of candles and lamps were lit to both add a bit of much needed warmth and provide light as dark fell quickly in the winter months. The soldiers were speaking about home, women, the dreadful weather they just left behind and how they were going to leave their captain in the mud if they ever got the chance. Voices crossed over into each other, picking up any kind of plans or clues proved to be impossible. 

Roche seemed to have realised that a while ago, and just stayed where he was, blinking slowly in the low light filtering in through the canvas walls before taking Ciaran’s hands in his, opened his gambeson, pulled his shirt up and put Ciaran’s hands flat on his stomach. 

“What’re you…?” Ciaran whispered, swallowing thickly as he felt Roche’s belt against his freezing fingertips. 

“You’re cold,” Roche whispered back and rubbed Ciaran’s back gently. There was a loud argument from the tent for a moment, but Roche did not seem particularly troubled so Ciaran decided to just try and wait it out as well. 

At least he had a very warm stomach to keep himself distracted. Roche was not sleeping, he was not really watching, just resting and showing no sign of protest at all as Ciaran moved one hand along the warm skin, over his hip bone to feel his narrow waist. He found scars there, scars that pretty much matched Ciaran’s own, and it made sense that the one so used to dealing out pain knew the other side of the lash as well. 

“Who?” Ciaran whispered, close enough to feel Roche’s breath upon his face. 

“Brothel manager,” Roche whispered, closing his eyes. “Sergeant. Foltest. Others I forgot.”

“Brothel?”

Roche nodded and reached down, pressing Ciaran’s hand down against the scars on his back when Ciaran was about to withdraw. “Grew up in one. Mum was a whore, then I was, for a while, until I got enlisted into Foltest’s special forces.” 

“You don’t mind?”

Roche shook his head and did not seem to be lying. He seemed content and relaxed despite being surrounded by Redanian soldiers. Ciaran felt none of the familiar tension in him as he ran his fingertips over the marks, he just made a content little sigh as Ciaran pushed his hand down behind Roche’s waistband for more warmth.

Ciaran decided there and then to make placing his hands on Roche’s bare skin as they slept a part of the routine. 

Roche stuck to their routine when they got back at the inn. It had changed little in the past months, only now Ciaran undressed himself and fed himself but he let Roche wash him. It felt necessary, yet somehow not enough. He watched as the washcloth brushed over his skin, down his sides, to his crotch, cleaning around his balls, the small patch of black hair circling the base of his cock, he was fully hard by the time Roche got around to cleaning the head and he shifted his hips slightly to try and show interest. 

It was a big enough break from routine that it made Roche pause. 

“You must see I want more,” Ciaran mumbled, taking a deep breath as Roche cleaned the cloth and started on his legs, methodically finishing off the routine. “Unless I have misunderstood your preferences entirely.”

“If that’s what you’re referring to,” Roche said as he nodded at Ciaran’s erection while cleaning his toes, “then yes, it’s my preference.”

Ciaran watched as Roche dried off his left foot, then started on the right. 

“But..?”

Roche finished cleaning Ciaran’s right foot before looking up at him. “But I need to know why you want it.”

“Does it matter?”

“It does,” Roche said as he placed his hands on Ciaran’s knees. “I am very easy to get into bed. I have sex to unwind, for the companionship, sometimes if I’m just bored or drunk or because I can’t be bothered to argue for a no, because in the end I really like it. I know hwy I want it but I don’t know why you want it.”

“So you would do it with me?”

“For the right reasons, yes,” Roche said, looking from Ciaran’s cock and up at his face. He patted Ciaran’s knee before getting to his feet, dropped the blanket in Ciaran’s lap and went over to the table and the food. “But you need to give me one.”

Ciaran wrapped his blanket around his waist once his cock had flagged enough to not chafe against the wool and followed Roche over to the table to eat. He watched the man on the other side of the table while picking apart some baked potato, trying to put words to the sensation lingering in his body, ever since they had spent the night hiding away from Redania. He had felt alive when they ran through those woods, and he enjoyed touching Roche’s skin, finding evidence that Roche was a survivor too.

“I want to manage as well as you do in the future,” Ciaran said, speaking the words slowly and watching as Roche put a piece of grilled tomato into his mouth. “You’ve made me run again. Climb as I did. There’s nightmares but those…”

Roche nodded, knowing better than anyone that those came and went. 

“Nightmares are just nightmares,” Ciaran said at last. “And I’ll have to live with both them and the scars, but I want to know if I’m able to enjoy… enjoy. And you know everything and you’re unafraid and you know what they’ve done.”

“One day you will have to explain,” Roche said as he cut his food up into more manageable pieces. “Explain to someone who will be horrified, angry, see you differently. And they will ask, I’ve seen enough of them hiding out in the trees these past few weeks.”

“They know about the barge, I assume, and that I was not on it anymore when it was taken by Iorveth and Geralt,” Ciaran mumbled, making himself breathe slowly as he anticipated panic. It was there, lurking somewhere in the back of his mind. Roche just continued eating, watching him calmly without making any comment. There was the unpleasant tightness in his chest, he could feel the cold sweat down his back but it was a good improvement compared to how it had been. “The ones who were on it, and survived, they had a view of everything.”

“Elves are private creatures,” Roche said at last. “Sure they’d tell?”

“I don’t know. But that doesn’t matter, does it,” Ciaran said as he rubbed his hands together, slowly, feeling his shoulders relax some. “I cannot change the past, the ones who did it are dead, and I got back on my feet with your help. Not the help of elves. They might come to understand, but I -know- you understand.”

Roche watched him for a few moments before leaning back in his chair to drink some water. 

“Better?” he asked, watching as Ciaran worked through his food as well. 

“Yeah, not bad at all,” Ciaran said as he reached his hand out over the table. “Not even cold.”

Roche wrapped his hand around Ciaran’s fingers and nodded as he downed the rest of his water.

“Alright, let’s get into bed,” Roche said and stood from the chair, unbuttoning his shirt as he walked over towards the one of the two beds they ever really used. Ciaran stared at him from where he sat as if nailed to the seat of his chair. 

“What, after all that?” 

Roche stopped by the side of the bed as he pulled the shirt over his head and glanced back at Ciaran for a moment before he started on his trousers. 

“Unless you changed your mind?” Roche asked as he pushed his clothes down, and Ciaran was not sure if he was entirely aware of the angle as he bent forward to get his socks off before dropping onto his back into the bed. “You’ll have the barge at the back of your mind no matter what you do, so might as well get used to it. That and people asking if you’re alright all the damned time just as you start getting in the mood.”

“People ask you if you’re alright?” Ciaran asked as he finished the last of his water, got to his feet and walked hesitantly over to join Roche. He sat on the edge of the bed, keeping a bit of distance between himself and the endless expanse of naked, scarred skin on display. Roche had his hand over his cock, a couple of fingers absent-mindedly toying with his balls so Ciaran could not really see how hard he might be. 

“Not really,” Roche said as he looked up at Ciaran. “I’ve stayed away from my men. Foltest knew about most of it, and else it’s just been random acquaintances in the dark, no-one to really care enough to listen or want to know. But I know I want to ask Ves if she is alright all the time, and she is as good as family by now.”

“But you are fine?” 

Roche nodded and moved his hands, resting them on the pillow on each side of his head as he arched his back slightly, showing off a nearly fully hard cock. 

“You look fine,” Ciaran said, to buy himself some time. He had sort of assumed this would be much like the routine, like the washing. He had assumed Roche could just take the choice out of his hands and do what needed to be done, but he seemed perfectly content just staying where he was, smiling in a way that could be interpreted as shyly, but Ciaran suspected that was something he had learnt to do as a kid. 

“Are you just going to stay there?”

Roche nodded again and spread his legs slightly, watching Ciaran with endless patience, the same kind of patience he had shown when helping Ciaran learn how to move around again after having been chained to the floor for months. 

He kept his blanket around himself as he reached down and placed his hand on Roche’s chest. His heart was beating steadily, a little faster than normal, but not by much, and he was very warm to the touch. Ciaran ran his fingertips over the soft skin, tracing scars, some of which he recognized the origins of. Roche did not seem to mind any of it, just tilted his head back as Ciaran ran his fingertips up along his throat. 

“What do you want?” Ciaran asked as he traced the shape of Roche’s left eyebrow, watching how he parted his lips in a soft gasp as Ciaran stroked his left ear. 

“You can do anything you want,” Roche whispered as Ciaran stroked the cartilage of his ear between his fingers. “I’ll stop you when I have to.”

“Anything?”

Roche nodded but blinked, surprised, when Ciaran leaned down and kissed him, only a gentle press of lips to lips at first before he pulled back, waiting for a reaction.

“Did they kiss you?” Roche asked at last. 

Ciaran nodded. “I think they did everything.”

“Figures,” Roche mumbled and hummed contently when Ciaran climbed on top of him, the blanket falling open so when he lowered himself down they were skin to skin. 

Roche was amazingly warm. Ciaran moved his hips so he could press his hardening cock to Roche’s stomach, looking down at him as he felt the body beneath his move. Roche was clearly enjoying himself, if the erection pressed up against Ciaran’s hip and the almost drunk looking smile was anything to go by. 

“What are you so damned happy about?” Ciaran asked as he sat up, hands pressed to Roche’s chest as he tried to figure out what to do next. He was aware that he sounded a bit frustrated, and he was. These things should come naturally, the touching, the passion, but he was entirely unable to lose himself in the sensations of it.

“That you’ve come this far,” Roche said, not exactly sounding lost in pleasure either as he watched Ciaran. “That you’re trying.”

“It doesn’t feel.. You know. Entirely right,” Ciaran admitted, trying to put words to what had been troubling him. “It doesn’t feel natural.”

“I would not expect it to feel natural,” Roche replied, and did not sound troubled at all. “It’s not a natural relationship for sex. I’ve been a carer and provider for you, not a chosen partner.”

“I could be,” Ciaran said.

“But you’re not, and that’s how it should be,” Roche said as he finally, finally placed his hands on Ciaran’s skin. He closed his eyes as Roche ran his hands up and down his sides. It did not feel like the touch of a lover. It felt like the months of being cared for, not with the aim of pleasure in mind, but with the aim of healing. 

“We don’t have to do this if it is too odd.”

“I’d still like to try,” Ciaran said, reaching down to stroke his cock so it would not flag completely. “Even if it is not particularly passionate. I’d like to know if I can do it, before I go back. I think it might be better this way.”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” Roche said and lifted Ciaran’s hips off his stomach to the elf’s slight bewilderment. “You can fuck me first, and if that goes alright, I can do you. Sounds good?”

Ciaran nodded and scooted backwards on the bed until he could kneel between Roche’s legs. He watched as Roche dragged his bag closer to find a bottle of what looked like vaguely yellow oil, which he handed to Ciaran. 

“You’ve fucked men before?” Roche asked as he picked up on the very obvious hesitation.

“...not much,” Ciaran admitted. “It has mostly been women, for me. I have been with male elves too, but that was usually just hands. Never actually been fucked properly before I got captured.”

“So, rape aside, you’ve not done this before,” Roche said. “Alright, let’s start with the basics. First of all, you want to use just enough oil for the guy you’re fucking. More is always better than less, however.”

Ciaran nodded and opened the bottle, putting some of the slick oil on his fingers, watching as Roche put some extra pillows under his head so he could watch. “Do you wish for fingers first?” he asked, feeling his cheeks heat up as he felt like a teenager again, touching a girl for the first time.

“I don’t mind either way,” Roche said, thoughtfully. “Just a slick cock put in slowly at first is my preference, I like the feeling of being able to take it all at once, because I can. But for others, you want to start out with fingers, see how they take it. Some might not stop you even if they are in pain, it’s your responsibility to make sure they’re having a good time. If it’s someone you haven’t fucked a lot before, start with fingers.”

“Can I try the fingers first?” Ciaran asked, and moved forward when Roche just nodded and pulled his legs back to completely, unashamedly expose himself. “How do you know if it is good or bad, though?”

“You mean, pained screams aside?” Roche said. “You can feel it, and see it. Put a finger in me. Slow, angle it up at first.”

Ciaran felt absurd for a moment as he reached down, seeing the tight hole presented to him and wondering just how damaged he was when Roche first found him. It looked very fragile, an entrance to the insides that could be forced open and torn. At least mouths had teeth for self defence. 

“You’ll tell me, right?” 

“I’ll kick you off the bed if it hurts me, don’t you worry. Now put your finger in me before my virginity grows back.”

“Thanks, that is very reassuring,” Ciaran scoffed but could not stop the small smile as Roche chuckled. He frowned as he pushed the tip of his finger in. “Fuck, it’s tight.”

“That’s me trying to keep you out,” Roche said calmly. “Doing this will cause me pain, so if it’s someone you’re sure wants you, you can just pull back and try rubbing the muscle from the outside, let it get used to the idea of having something go in the wrong way around. This is me wanting it.”

Ciaran swallowed thickly as Roche’s muscles relaxed, allowing him to push in further, contracting slightly now and then in soft spasms. 

“Another one. Same rules, tight means more time. Move them in and out a bit as you go.”

“You’re not tight, just twitchy.”

“Mmhm.”

“Want a third?”

“Sure.”

“Fuck, you’re easy,” Ciaran whispered as he watched Roche take three fingers without apparent issue. Still there was that weak, gentle clenching around his fingers that seemed to go straight to Ciaran’s own cock. He wondered how it would feel. 

“Told you so. Now press your fingers as deep as they can go, and push upwards towards my cock with your fingertips,” Roche mumbled as he wrapped his hand around his own cock. “A bit harder... yeah… feel that?”

“It feels like a... kinda like a… mushroom.”

Roche chuckled, and that made his arse tighten around Ciaran’s fingers. “Yeah, mushroom. It’s a prostate. You can stroke it in circles, tap at it, move your fingers back and forth, people have different preferences. But it is what makes having a cock up there feel good.”

“I think I’ve felt that,” Ciaran said, thinking back to the many conversations where he and Roche had discussed how they had managed to make him come while on the barge. How sometimes, if everything else hurt enough, getting fucked without too much brutality could actually feel like a reprieve. Apparently this was part of it. 

“It makes everything much more intense,” Roche said, a little breathless as he seemed to unconsciously attempt to fuck himself onto Ciaran’s hand a few times. Roche looked up at Ciaran, down between his legs, and up again. “Now, as I’m as ready as I can be, put some oil on your cock, on all of it.”

Ciaran did as told, slicked his cock up carefully while watching Roche’s glistening hole. 

“You said I would be able to see it?” Ciaran asked as Roche hooked a foot behind his back, pressing his heel into one of Ciaran’s buttocks to get him closer. “I understand the feeling, but seeing? Pain and pleasure can look much the same, as I know it.”

“Pretty much the same as with girls, I guess,” Roche said, having apparently lost his patience for Ciaran’s hesitation, he reached down between them to guide Ciaran’s cock inside himself. Ciaran gasped and closed his eyes as he sank into the warmth, meeting no real resistance at all. “If I angle my arse up to meet your cock, then I’m fine. On my back like this, I should be pushing my hips up to meet you. If I’m on all fours, I should be pushing my ass up and keep my chest down. If I start curving my back like an angry cat in that position, it’s because of pain or discomfort.” 

“So you stop,” Ciaran gasped, trying to keep up with the lesson while feeling Roche’s body take him in. 

“Not necessarily,” Roche said as Ciaran got as deep as he could get, and then the bastard decided to make his arse tighten up, over and over until Ciaran whimpered. “Make adjustments, ask questions. Maybe they just need to adjust a little, stopping entirely can make the one you’re fucking feel like a failure, even if it is the safest thing to do. It depends a lot on the person. You can move, you know.” 

“I will if you stop clenching,” Ciaran grumbled. “Or this won’t last long.”

“This is for educational purposes, so it doesn’t have to,” Roche said as he reached up to stroke Ciaran’s ear, and that was too much. He grabbed Roche’s thigh, fucked into him for just a few moments before he came, realising that neither of them would likely last long after months of not really doing anything at all. 

He pulled out slowly, considered apologizing for coming inside him, but Roche seemed content enough. 

“I told you,” Ciaran grumbled as he slumped down onto the mattress next to Roche. 

“I don’t mind,” Roche said as he turned over on his side, stroking his hand over Ciaran’s hip. “Lack of passion, remember?”

“Guess I don’t have much to prove,” Ciaran said, closing his eyes and just enjoying the attention for a little while, and blinked himself awake as he realized he had been enjoying it, weird as the experience had been. 

“Can you do me now?” he asked, looking up at Roche who seemed half asleep as well. 

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah. While all the stuff you said is fresh in my mind.”

Roche nodded, found the bottle in the sheets somewhere and got down on his side in front of Ciaran again once what looked like most of his left hand was slick with it. 

Ciaran felt curiously unafraid as he wrapped an arm around Roche, raising one leg to give him easier access as the fingertips stroked in between his buttocks. He was tight, very tight, but Roche did as he said he would, stroking and teasing from the outside until Ciaran was almost asleep and then he slipped the tip of a finger inside. 

It did not actually hurt. The tightness in his spine was there, it felt weird rather than good, but the sharp pain and the dull pain that he had come to know and hate were not there, and Roche was not pushing in, just pressing gently against the tight, straining muscle until Ciaran found he could relax around it. Half an eternity later, he had two fingers pressed deep into his body and every single higher brain function had shut down as Roche moved down and took Ciaran’s cock in his mouth, apparently not caring where it had been a little while ago. 

“Oh fuck,” he whispered, trying and failing to gripping the short hair on the back of Roche’s neck as Roche seemed to press the orgasm out of him by stroking his prostate, the man just groaned happily as Ciaran coated his tongue with his seed, swallowed it all down and then seemed intent on ending Ciaran’s life permanently by pulling is fingers out, moving futher down and licking Ciaran’s oil slick hole while the aftershocks still rushed through his body. 

He had no idea how he managed to vocalize the need, or if he even had done so, but he found himself on his back, legs spread wide with Roche in between them pressing the tip of his cock all too gently to Ciaran’s hole, oil slick and filthy and just what he needed. Roche was watching him, one hand resting on Ciaran’s stomach as he eased his cock into his oversensitive body, never once ignoring the slightest sign of discomfort until he was as deep as he could get. 

“Still with me?” Roche asked, and Ciaran blinked as his mind registered words being spoken to him. He nodded, not sure what had been said but agreeing to it anyway, and then Roche moved. 

It was a slow, gentle pace, not painful, not bad, though not particularly arousing either. It was bitter-sweet with memories of others doing this to him, making his people watch, he felt the movement on top of him, inside him, and kept waiting for something that did not seem to come. Roche did not seem to bring it out in him, and it took him a while to understand that he was expecting to feel shame. 

“There you are,” Roche whispered with a small smile as Ciaran looked up at him. 

“You’re such a soft hearted bitch, Vernon Roche,” Ciaran mumbled, regretting the words even as he said them. 

“Don’t tell the rest of the squirrels,” Roche said in a low, conspiratorial voice as he shifted position slightly, breathing harder now. “I got this cold, ruthless image to uphold after all.”

“You’re not doing a good job of it,” Ciaran said and nodded as Roche paused and looked at him. “I’m alright. I promise.”

“I know.”

He relaxed into the feeling as Roche got up on his knees and came within a few moments, it both looked and felt a little half hearted, but it was fine. Ciaran felt messy, wrung out and tired but most important of all, he was fine. A little embarrassed as Roche cleaned them, but not ashamed, not even uncomfortable as Roche lay down next to him on the narrow bed. 

When he woke up again, it was dark outside. Roche was not sleeping, he was on his back next to Ciaran, he could see the glint in the human’s eyes as they reflected the cold moonlight, and where Ciaran had grown used to Roche being about as relaxed as a cat in a beam of sunlight, now there was something troubling him. 

“Redania?” Ciaran whispered when he thought he had understood what was on Roche’s mind, and as Roche closed his eyes and took a deep breath, Ciaran knew he was right. 

“Redania, Nilfgaard, plague… ” Roche mumbled. “I can’t help but wonder how much more Temeria can take, between them, us, and you.”

“The land will survive,” Ciaran said as he pulled the blankets up over them both. “And you will have no trouble from us. The Scoia’tael will retreat, probably raid some stray scouting parties, but… we have to survive the winter too. And the next one, and the one after that.”

“The continent has been overrun by war,” Roche said, turning his head slightly. “And I’m going south to try and stop it. I won’t be hunting you for a while.”

“And it would be a bit of a waste after spending the last few months getting me back on my feet.”

Roche smiled, turned slightly and closed his eyes. 

It happened in the middle of the night, just as late fall turned to winter. Ciaran was already dressed when Roche woke up, he was sitting on the unused bed, lacing up his boots, then walked softly over to the chair by the door, picked up his jacket and put it on before turning around. 

He stood there for a few moments, rooted to the spot in the middle of the floor until Roche took pity on him, turned over on his back and stretched slightly to show he was awake. 

“Take the hood,” Roche mumbled, his voice gruff with sleep. “It’s getting cold out there.”

“It’s your hat.”

“I’ll get a new one.”

He watched as Ciaran took the chaperon from the hook on the wall, shook it out and put it on over his head, twisting the tail end around his neck to keep it out of the way before walking over to the window. They were on the second floor of the little inn, but the drop would be nothing for a healthy elf. 

“They’re waiting for you?” Roche asked, when Ciaran just stood there, watching the darkness beyond. 

“Yeah,” Ciaran said softly, unlatching the window and putting one food up on the windowsill. Roche watched him stand there, it reminded him of the first time he let go of Ciaran’s arm to let him try walking unassisted in the soft grass in the warm summer evening, he recognized that fear of whether or not he could take that next step unassisted. 

“Close the window when you go,” Roche mumbled as he pulled the blankets over himself to fight off the cold. “And tell Iorveth I said hi.”

“I will,” Ciaran said. “You’ll be okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”


	10. ❝i think that guy is giving you a weird look.❞

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elihal/Éibhear/Mislav, handjobs (2), Elihal being Elihal.

❝i think that guy is giving you a weird look.❞

Elihal, being entirely himself as usual, did not just turn his head casually to see whom it was Éibhear was referring to. He twirled around, hand on his hip and looked the by now paralyzed human up and down critically. 

“That is not a weird look, dear Éibhear,” Elihal said as he shimmied his way down the gravel path in delicate, satin sandals, the flowing, white day-dress settling against his lanky frame as he stopped in front of the man. “This is the look of a man in crisis. I pray you are in search of a tailor, good sir.”

The human was a bit shorter than himself, looking like he had stuffed a hundred years of tragedy and toil into a forty year old body and his clothing was more repairs than they were original material by now. It also looked like he had been in a fight recently, not too recent as the swelling had gone down, but the bruising was bad and he was favouring his right side. 

He also had that typical expression most people got when Elihal felt like wearing dresses. There was nothing particularly lewd or spectacular about the simple, white summer dress Elihal wore for the day, an off the shoulder ensemble with bell-end sleeves, a pale green gold embroidered belt at the waist and delicate pleating at the neckline being the only decoration to distract from the flowing delicacy of the muslin fabric. He waited until the shock of the clothes passed, then watched as the shock of Elihal’s makeup struck the man. It was nothing particularly spectacular either, just a slight definition to the eyebrows, an emerald green eyeshadow with golden shimmer to compliment the belt and a soft, blended liner to enhance the shape of his eyes, hardly noticeable under the wide brim of his straw hat, if he was any judge.

Thankfully the shock faded into a slightly stunned acceptance and not rage, so Elihal just tilted his head gracefully to one side and smiled. 

“So, let us get the formalities out of the way,” he said, deciding to help the poor man a little on his way out of the stupor. “My name is Elihal, I am an elven tailor, sometimes I look male, sometimes female, but I will always be Elihal. May I ask your name, sir?”

“Mislav,” the man croaked after a few dry-throated attempts. “I am Mislav. Hunter. I need a tailor, as you said.”

“A blessing upon our meeting, Mislav,” Elihal said and held his hand out for Mislav to shake, watched the human look at it as if it was some sort of specialized equipment he had not been trained to handle. He was pleasantly surprised, however, when Mislav took his hand, not to shake it, but to bring it up and press the gentlest of kisses to his knuckles. 

“Absolutely delightful,” Elihal said with a bright smile, linked his arm with Mislav’s and more or less dragged him up the path to his home. “See what I found, dear, a friend! Could you please get another plate and cup from the kitchen?”

Éibhear nodded, moved his long legs from under the table and stalked off into the little house, bending low so he would not knock himself silly against the doorframe. 

“Please, do sit,” Elihal said, gesturing to the bench that was more than big enough for three guests while he himself settled in the chair on the other side of the table. Mislav dusted his clothes off carefully before he sat down, not without a hint of pain, Elihal noticed, and looked at the table-setting. 

“Éibhear and I often meet for afternoon tea on slow summer days like these,” Elihal said dreamily as he adjusted the dress over his crossed legs. “The air tastes sweeter here than in the city. Thank you, Éibhear.”

The smith smiled apologetically to Mislav before sitting down, folding his long legs at the ankles under the bench as he took the tea-pot and filled Mislav’s cup first, then gave Elihal and at last himself a refill before picking up the delicate china cup that looked more or less like a toy in his hands. 

“Éibhear is a swordsmith working in Novigrad, and he is a highly skilled cook,” Elihal said and smiled brightly at Éibhear when the elf blushed shyly at the praise. “He made the lemonade cake, please do try it.”

Mislav looked rather overwhelmed as Éibhear expertly cut a slice from the cake sitting on a silver tray on the table and put it on his plate, but with much encouragement and gentle nudging from Éibhear, the man eventually did taste both the tea and the cake. Considering Mislav suitably bullied for the day, Elihal cut himself a new slice as well, took a small piece off of it with a fork and ate it with every sign of enjoyment. 

“Now I do assume you are not here merely to enjoy our fine company,” Elihal said as Mislav seemed to have relaxed a bit. “How may I be of assistance to you?”

“I need new clothes,” Mislav said, his voice low and embarrassed for some reason. “As you can see. Something suitable for travelling.”

“Are you going far?” Elihal asked as he picked up his own tea cup, holding it with the tips of his fingers as he enjoyed the sweet, fragrant scent and the soothing taste of chamomile. 

“South, I think,” Mislav whispered, glancing at passers-by without moving as if he was on the run from something. “Away from Temeria, anyway.”

“Are you in trouble?” Éibhear asked, and got a shake of a head in return. 

“Just with the locals where I come from,” Mislav admitted after a few moments, and Elihal realized Mislav had avoided talking until a young couple had moved away towards the city gate. “Didn’t steal or hurt anyone, I’m not in any… legal trouble, like that. I just have to get away, I can’t stay there anymore. I don’t have much to offer, I just need clothes that’s not falling apart for the journey.”

“If you are not too troubled with not being in fashion, I do have some spare fabrics from last season that I would not mind parting with,” Elihal said, watching with keen interest as Éibhear, an elf that normally was so timid he tended to apologize to door-frames if he bumped into them, scoot closer and place a big hand on Mislav’s shoulder. Éibhear might not have a talent for standing up for himself or anyone else for that matter, but he was masterful at picking up on certain aspects of people. It was part of the reason why he and Elihal were such good friends, Éibhear greeted him the same way no matter which variant of himself Elihal decided to be from day to day, he had been genuinely delighted to see Elihal in a dress for the first time and most important of all, did not treat him as if he was some sort of free-for-all slut because of it. But the best part about Éibhear, apart from his cooking, his friendship and his empathy, of course, was his truly exceptional talent for figuring out someone’s sexual orientation. 

It made for a wonderful game during parties.

Elihal knew just by looking at Éibhear’s proximity, the look on his face and the hand he placed on Mislavs’s back that Mislav was as gay as they could get, that he was perfectly aware of the fact but also that shame had been beaten so firmly into him that he was barely able to stand under the burden anymore. It was as good a reason as any to run away. 

“So, I would recommend two shirts, a short jacket, a cloak, new trousers, some underwear and a -good- pair of boots,” Elihal said, raising his hands placatingly as Mislav’s face fell if possibly even further. “Do not worry, friend, I have second hand boots for sale and I can make simple cuts of clothing in cheap, but sturdy material at low cost. I will not charge more than you can afford.”

“It still sounds expensive,” Mislav said quietly as Elihal found a measuring tape in the pocket sewn into his dress. He walked over to Mislav and quickly measured him up, it was quickly done when the simplest and most of all cheapest clothes were mostly made out of squares. Mislav still looked troubled, however. 

“Please say what is on your mind, dear, before your thoughts spin out of your ears,” Elihal said as he rolled the measuring tape into a neat little disc before putting it away. “It is awfully unhealthy.”

“I’m sorry, just never seen anyone like you before,” Mislav said as he gestured very vaguely at Elihal’s clothing. 

“There are few like me,” Elihal said and had to resist ruffling Mislav’s hair. Mislav was honestly trying, that was more than what he could really ask for from anyone in this world. “Do not worry, you are doing wonderfully. Perhaps we should take this indoors? The sunset might be a fine sight but it truly brings in the cold from the sea.”

“You two go ahead, I’ll clean this up,” Éibhear said as he stood, and then Mislav insisted to help and Éibhear insisted it was truly not necessary, so Elihal took the privilege of being the lady in their mismatched trio and left them to it. 

He had some thin wool fabric, some rolls of moss green linen and some leftover, sturdy brown wool that he had used to complete an order for the local militia a few years ago, they smelled a bit earthy but he doubted Mislav would mind at all, and he had laid them out neatly on his workbench when the two came in carrying tablecloths, pillows, cups, plates and leftover cake and went to dispose of everything in the kitchen. 

When the dishes were done, dried and put up in the little cupboard, Éibhear brought up a few bottles of ale from the basement and poured each of them a glass as they settled by the table next to where Elihal worked. 

“You work very quickly,” Mislav said as he drank from his glass. 

“It is a simple cut, not exactly fashionable but I have a feeling you will not care much either way,” Elihal said as the linen thread and needle flowed through the rolled up hems. “So how far have you travelled to get here, Mislav?”

“From White Orchard,” Mislav said, and his mood darkened yet again.

“Never heard of the place,” Éibhear said, and it was all Elihal could do to keep the smile off his face as Éibhear’s feet touched Mislav’s under the table. 

“It’s east of here, east of Vizima. On the road up to Ellander.”

“I take it you followed the river to get here?”

Mislav nodded and emptied half his glass in one go. “Anyway, I’ll not say here long. Just needed to get clothes and such and I heard Novigrad’s a free trade city, some riders I met said you’d sell solid clothes.”

“Elves, perhaps? Two women on chestnut mares wearing red cloaks?”

“How’d you know?”

“They are customers of mine, a delightful pair,” Elihal said dreamily as he adjusted the sleeves. “A shame they did not pause to have a look at you, they are healers.”

Elihal listened as Mislav pushed back the bench he was sitting on, just slightly, before sitting down again, and he glanced up to see that it was Éibhear who had stopped him. Working as a smith had given the elf a deceptively strong build and a grip that could moor ships, that grip was now on Mislav’s lower arm. He was not holding hard, just had his hand loosely wrapped around Mislav’s wrist but Elihal knew by experience that getting out of that grip when Éibhear did not want you to would require a sharp axe and a good aim. 

The silence in the little house was deafening. Outside there was the banter between the locals, some kids were screaming at the top of their lungs down by the river and some of the neighbours were playing music, and Elihal hummed along to the tune as he ignored the battle of wills over at the table. 

Eventually Mislav relaxed and sat down properly, staring at the table. 

“You didn’t choose to leave, right?” Éibhear said as he took Mislav’s hands in his and stroked the pads of his thumbs over Mislav’s knuckles. Elihal could see why. They were entirely unharmed, unlike the rest of the man. 

“Couldn’t take it anymore,” Mislav said, his voice carefully neutral. “Can’t say I planned any of it. The leaving, I mean.”

“You got anything with you at all?”

“Some savings. Weapons, a bit of food. I’ve been hunting on the way.”

“So, a proper backpack in addition,” Elihal said with a smile on his face. “I wish you would stop looking like I’m threatening you, Mislav. You said yourself you’re a hunter, go get me some fresh game in the morning, I could do with the food for winter and it would go a long way for payment.”

“I can do that,” Mislav said, and Elihal could see the tension slip away from his shoulders. 

“That’s great, Éibhear can help you when you return.”

“So what’s the story with you two?” Mislav asked, and Elihal smiled as he kept working and watching how Mislav did not seem to mind at all that Éibhear did not let go of his hands, nor did he seem to mind the rambling story of his and Elihal’s odd little friendship. They found common grounds in the tale of a white haired witcher who had thought Mislav was a lycanthrope, that Elihal was Dandelion’s girlfriend and had helped Éibhear get his shop up and going again and spent a while wondering what may have become of him. 

It was near midnight before Elihal put his work down and stood up to stretch, and then they spent half an hour convincing Mislav that elven hospitality was actually a thing, another half hour before everyone were cleaned up and ready for bed and by then Mislav was too exhausted to protest against the one bed only arrangement or fight the theory that no elf slept with any clothes on. 

The bruises were worst on Mislav’s arms and back, so neither of them were surprised when Mislav eased down on his stomach, rested his head on his folded arms and tried to relax, he did not offer one word of protest either when Éibhear stretched out next to him, situated himself in between Elihal and Mislav and seeming perfectly happy with that arrangement. 

Elihal was used to having Éibhear in his bed. Éibhear was safe, he kept his hands to himself until told otherwise and adjusted to Elihal’s changing moods like he had done nothing else all his life. He never had to worry about him, which was why he did not worry when he woke up a little while later to Éibhear’s whispers. 

“Trouble sleeping..?”

“Haven’t shared a bed in twenty years,” Mislav whispered back, sounding as exhausted as he likely was. 

“I can help you relax, if you want.”

There was silence for a while, the sound of tense breathing and fingers stroking over stubble. 

“What about Elihal…?”

“He won’t mind,” Éibhear said as Elihal turned over on his back. “He’s very vocal about what he wants. And doesn’t want.”

Elihal kept his eyes closed has he listened. He knew perhaps better than anyone else how good it felt to have Éibhear’s big, calloused hands on his skin, feel the safety of his strength and the surprisingly tender touch. He recalled the days of the witch-hunters, the pyres and the hangings, how Éibhear had left the city to stay with him to get away from it all and how they had little else to do but make food and sleep, finding safety with each other in a world that was going crazy.

He stroked his hand down his own chest, eyes still closed as he listened to the breathy, wet sounds of Éibhear licking into Mislav’s mouth, felt their bodies move to accommodate touch and he could hear the change in Mislav’s breathing as Éibhear found his cock. 

“Alright?” Éibhear whispered and Mislav tried to keep the breathy little moan down, failing miserably. Elihal wrapped his hand around his own erection, trying to mimic that wicked little stroke-and-turn at the tip that Éibhear had perfected over the years, the trick that seemed to be liquifying Mislav’s brain at the moment by the sound of it. 

“Oh gods, I-...”

“It’s good,” Éibhear whispered and Elihal bit down on his lip as Mislav shuddered hard enough to shake the bed, finding his climax hard and sudden and by the sound of it he seemed almost surprised by it. 

Perhaps twenty years of not sharing a bed with anyone equalled to twenty years untouched. 

He waited until the two had settled down a little before turning, throwing his blankets off and climbing on top of Éibhear who did not seem very surprised at all about having a lap full of horny tailor all of a sudden. 

“Inspired?” Éibhear asked and tilted his head back as Elihal’s thin fingers teased the edges of his ears.

“You two couldn’t keep it down,” Elihal said as he kissed Éibhear’s exposed neck. “You still can’t, by the feel of it.”

“Wasn’t about me,” Éibhear said with a content little smile as he placed his hands on the sides of Elihal’s head. This meant both their hands were busy touching ears, so the hand that wrapped around their erections, pressing them lightly together was not of their doing. Elihal decided not to dwell on it, if Mislav wished to return the favour it was all good with him. 

It was certainly a new experience, being able to just touch and rut into the grip, his cock grinding against Éibhear’s with just enough friction to make him hold back, the lack of a need to keep focus on it was exhilarating as they could just use their hands for what they wanted to. Éibhear was keening into Elihal’s kisses, spurred on by having both his ears stroked and having full reach of Elihal’s body with both hands, one settling protectively over his back, the other grabbing Elihal’s ass, kneading the muscle, enough to tease but not enough to start something Elihal had not allowed for the night. 

It was delightfully naughty of him, especially as they were being watched, being touched by someone else, a tired and sated human who was watching them with such a soft look on his face that Elihal could not meet his gaze or risk losing it all together. He revelled in the safety of Éibhear’s embrace, the familiar scent and feel of him, the choked up little gasps he made just before he came as he tried to keep quiet. Elihal smiled as Éibhear started cursing quietly in elder speech, Mislav had not let go of either of them and somehow the feeling of Éibhear’s oversensitive, softening cock against his was even better than the hardness. He licked at Éibhear’s neck, closed his eyes and pushed hard into the grip on his cock, finally finding his own release, spilling over Éibhear’s stomach and Mislav’s hand. 

Elihal sighed contently as Éibhear sat up, dragged a mug of water closer and tipped a little onto a piece of fluffy cloth, cleaning Elihal up first, then Mislav’s hand, then himself and then made sure everyone was tucked up nice and comfortable under the blankets. Éibhear always took such good care of those around him, be it Elihal when he was in the mood or others who shared his bed. Elihal was more than happy to soak up all the attention and affection he could get, especially when it meant having his ears stroked as he fell asleep, listening to the deep, steady breaths of his friend and their guest. 

-

"It was kind of you, doing what you did," Éibhear mumbled and wrapped an arm around Elihal's shoulders as they watched Mislav walk down the road. Even with the additional burden of the new backpack, spare clothes and some extra food Éibhear had insisted on giving him, he seemed much lighter on his feet than he had yesterday. Elihal had hardly recognized the man when he returned early that morning with a deer over his shoulders in payment for his new things. 

"He comes from a very bad place, that one," Elihal said. "You know as well as I do that a little bit of acceptance for ones peculiarities goes a long way for a tormented soul." 

"Still, you know you did not have to, right?"

“Éibhear, you are an exceedingly caring friend,” Elihal said as he looked up, trying not to actually laugh. “I am very fond of you. Trust me, it was not a terribly difficult sacrifice on my part.”

He closed his eyes as Éibhear pressed the gentlest of kisses to his brow. “This world doesn’t deserve you, Elihal,” he whispered, and Elihal opened his eyes just in time to see Mislav disappear into the woods. 

“Perhaps not,” Elihal agreed as he placed his hand on Éibhear’s strong chest. “But I think you do.”


	11. ❝you have the prettiest smile i've seen all day.❞

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lambert/Aiden, Letho side kick. R for sex, all sex is F/M, with the F being a guy who due to an unfortunate curse gets a girl body. Awkward sex education.

❝you have the prettiest smile i've seen all day.❞

Letho did have pretty good hearing. It came with being of the Viper school and having received their particular variation of mutations, he could pick up on vibrations of all sorts much better than a witcher of any other school and sound was, when you got right down to it, vibrations. It was why he was also able to step out of the way before the inn’s door hit him in the face as the potential flirter got kicked head first through it, taking the lock, the hinges and some door frame with it as well. 

“You come tell me that to my fucking face again, you inbred, rat shit excuse of a human and I’ll punch your teeth through the back of your skull!” 

If Letho was a better man, he would have tried to calm down the absolutely livid girl as she stood on the front steps of the inn but morbid curiosity won as she turned around, yelled at someone inside the inn and stomped back inside to likely cause even more mayhem. He watched the stricken man on the ground for a moment to see if he was actually breathing, figured he was due to the pained moans, and then stepped into the small building to see the girl holding another man by his lapels pressed up against the bar, fist pulled back and ready to destroy. 

“You wanna lecture me on lady like behavior again?” she snarled, the man shaking his head rapidly and not seeming to stop any time soon. “You gonna leave me the fuck alone?” 

“Yes, I’m sorry, I didn’t-”

“Then shut the fuck up!” 

Letho managed to keep his own expression neutral as the girl dropped the poor man and let him fall to his knees, she grabbed a tankard from the counter, stared at the innkeeper until he told her it was definitely on the house, and stalked off towards a table that immediately became vacant. 

The chatter in the inn picked up, just a bit too cheerful and loud to be entirely natural, the only bonus of it all was that Letho was being largely ignored. It was a curious sensation. He was used to being the center of attention, bald and large, with witcher eyes and enough muscle to make even a troll think twice, but now everyone’s eyes were on the girl. 

Letho ordered and paid for a drink, which he drank immediately as he figured he might have to leave the place in a hurry, before he sauntered over to the vacant table. Now that she sat quietly, he could get a good look at her. Curiously enough, she was wearing armor quite a few sizes too big for her, it was held in place with extra belts and straps and she carried two swords across her shoulders in a northern witcher style. 

As he sat down in front of her by the sturdy table, she did not look up. The long, black flowing hair hid most of her face, a bruised hand covered the rest, but he could see the wolf witcher medallion hanging listlessly from the chain around her neck. It vibrated very gently, just like Letho’s medallion did. 

“Piss off.”

“Nah,” Letho replied. “Not until you tell me who you’ve taken all your stuff from. ‘Cause it clearly ain’t yours, girl.”

“Why the fuck do you care,” the girl said, defensive to the point of seething by now, and Letho had not expected seeing the cat eyes when she dropped her hand to the table and glared up at him. If she had not been so damned angry, she would have been pretty, but in a strange way, with thick, full lips, a strong jaw, bushy eyebrows and almond shaped eyes. “It’s mine, and no sentient ball-sack’s gonna claim it fucking ain’t.”

She spent the moments of Letho’s shocked silence well, she was off her feet and out the door in a flash and everyone in the inn seemed to breathe easier. 

It was a witcher. A girl witcher, and an angry one. 

It was the best distraction Letho had run into for years. 

-

Letho did not have to work hard at following the girl wolf around. She was angry enough to leave an impression with those she met, taking contracts here and there when she could but more often than not running away before she could pick up the money for it. Letho made a habit out of picking up the money for her. She stole food when she could, hunted when she could not steal, and on one memorable occasion she stole a rowboat, took it into the middle of a small lake and started throwing bombs around. Letho had wondered if that was the final straw, if she had finally snapped, but all the bombs had done was stun the fish in the lake so she could row around and pick them up from the surface. 

She was a skilled survivor, sleeping outdoors most nights and meditating with the best of them, and Letho found that she had to be a true witcher or she would not have been able to set up the trap she did. 

He did not even see it before a branch swung towards him, it was full of little knives and he grunted in pain as three of them found their mark in his thighs, sinking in deep for just a moment before he yanked them back out and collapsed to the ground, reaching for his potions. 

“That’s what you get for stalking, you limp dicked worm,” the girl said as she crept out from behind the tree. “What part of leave me the fuck alone didn’t you understand?”

“Damn, I only want to help,” Letho said as he drank the vial of swallow and waited for his legs to stop leaking. “You’re not doing great, if you haven’t noticed.”

“I’m doing fine,” the girl said, crossing her arms over her chest. The over sized shoulder armor made her look like a child wearing her dad’s clothes. “If only people’d leave me the fuck alone, I’d be fine.”

“You’ve left five hundred gold in contract rewards behind only the last few weeks,” Letho grunted, moving his legs and finding they were starting to heal up. “You’re not doing fine. And when did the wolf school start churning out girl witchers anyway? More importantly… how?”

“I ain’t a girl,” the girl snarled, against all common logic. “Go away!”

“What do you mean you’re not a girl?” Letho asked as he staggered to his feet but it was much too late. The girl witcher was off into the woods like a startled deer, and Letho looked down at his chest and the viper medallion slowly settling against his armor. 

-

If Letho had ever doubted if the self declared not-girl was a witcher or not, he got the proof a few days later. The girl had kept up a good pace but in her eagerness to run away from Letho she managed to run into a rather larger than normal group of bandits. No ordinary girl could have fought like that against ten fully grown battle hardened men. Letho watched, stunned, observing the casting of signs and the expert sword fighting, she would have managed had she only been a little stronger. She did not seem comfortable in her body and it slowed her down just enough to take a few hits too many, so when the last bandit was down she was staggering, leaning on her sword and finally crashing face down into the grass. 

Letho sat quietly in the shadows for a little while, and when she did not get back up he walked over to the fallen witcher. She was not responding when he turned her over, and he could tell why. The mutations had closed up the wounds partially, but there were quite a few of them, and she had suffered enough blood loss to knock her out. 

He cleaned the steel sword before putting it back in its scabbard, then picked the girl up as gently as he could. 

She did not wake up while he set up camp, and was still out cold when Letho quickly bandaged up her injuries, one to her waist, a few to her lower arms and one across her thigh that would have caused most of the blood loss that finally made her collapse. She was healing up with the predictable speed of a witcher, though, so Letho was not particularly worried as he leaned back against the trunk of the tree behind him and closed his eyes. 

It did not take long before a chorus of by now familiar repetitive cursing heralded the girl’s return to the world of the conscious, it followed with an equally predictable escape attempt and as a result of that, the soft thud of the girl hitting the ground as her blood pressure could not keep up with her ambitions. 

He waited until she woke up again, this time rather more sluggish and somewhat less dramatic. 

“Wish you’d calm down, I just wanna help,” Letho said as he pushed a branch deeper into the campfire. “My medallion picks up on something about you, and seems yours do as well. Did you get yourself into some kinda trouble?”

“Nothing that concerns you,” the girl growled, but it sounded half-hearted. Letho watched as she tried to push herself off the ground, but instead managed to collapse into a slightly neater heap on the jacket he had put her on instead. 

“Come on, we’re both witchers,” Letho said and sat up, raising his hands defensively when that made her curl up like a cornered cat. “I really just want to help you. I’m bored, you got some magic going on with you and I can kinda guess it ain’t voluntary.”

She did not reply. On the other hand, she did not move either, she seemed resigned into her curled up position on the blanket, staring into the fire with glistening eyes. It was some sort of development anyway, so Letho just sat back, piled some more wood onto the campfire and granted himself some quiet meditation while the girl sulked. 

When the sun started its slow crawl up the morning sky, Letho found that the witcher girl had stuck around. She had made her way over to another tree, jacket and all, and sat huddled up inside it with nothing but the top of her head showing. 

Letho sighed quietly, worked out the stiff muscles in his shoulders with a few eye-watering pops of his spine and got to his feet. He did not have his horse here, it was back at the stables along with his saddlebags and all the food. 

“You can keep the jacket, but the jacket’s coming with me,” he said as he got to his feet, walked over to her and offered his hand. He tried to ignore the gentle vibration of his medallion as she looked up, stared at his hand, ignored it and got to her feet. Letho shook his head slightly as he started walking, keeping it slow at first so she could keep up. 

He made sure to walk around the patch of wood where she had sprung that trap at him, not wanting a repeat of yesterday, but she seemed tired and done fighting as they walked across the edge of a field towards the little town they had run away from yesterday. 

“I got cursed,” the girl said at last, and Letho did not turn around. She was a few steps behind him, directly behind him, but if that was what it took to get her to talk he would make do. 

“Got into trouble with a girl,” she continued. “She cursed me. Turned me into a girl.”

“What’s your name?”

“Lambert.”

“How long you been cursed then?”

“Three months.”

“Damn.”

Letho tried to wrap his mind around the idea of living like a girl for three months, and found that at some point his imagination brought up the image of himself turned a lady which resulted in his brain just shutting itself down in pure self defence, so in the end they just kept walking in silence for the rest of the way. 

The inn was empty of customers this early in the morning, and fortunately the innkeeper had made good money on the people arriving to hear the latest gossip last night so they had little trouble getting themselves a few bowls of greasy stew, fresh baked bread and a table to themselves in a quiet corner of the room. 

“So, you’re not just looking like a girl,” Letho said, keeping his voice low. “You are in every way female at the moment.”

“It’s not an illusion, I could have dealt with a damned illusion,” Lambert said, tucking her hair back under her collar to keep it out of the stew. 

“And you haven’t gone back to the wolf witchers because…?”

Lambert just stared at him, sat back slightly and gestured at herself. 

“Alright.”

“It’s the last damned resort, asking those pricks for any kinda assistance,” Lambert grumbled. “Besides, it’s getting worse.”

“How can it get worse?”

“I’m getting… I’m getting -more- female,” Lambert said, and now Letho could see plainly the hint of fear that had been lurking under all that anger. “In the start it was just. You know. Essential pieces were gone. Then these things started happening at about the same time that my beard vanished.”

She gestured to her breasts, which, Letho could tell even if they were covered up by an ill-fitting leather jacket, were of the round and perky kind. 

“Then I got a lighter voice, my… my face changed, my shape. Then this damned hair, last week.” She grabbed hold of her long, silky black hair and pulled at it. “If I try cutting it off it grows back in the next day.”

“Sounds a bit intricate for a simple curse,” Letho said as he cut his bread into smaller chunks. “A slow transforming spell of some sort. There has to be an end point to it though, it can’t go on forever.”

“Limited amount of girl?” Lambert snorted, stabbing her spoon into the stew as if that would solve anything. “What, I’ll start developing nail-varnish before I see the end of it?”

“Curses ain’t logical,” Letho said. “Did you hear what the caster said? There’s usually clauses within the words of the curse, something we can use to reverse it.”

“That’s the problem,” Lambert said as she glumly swept up some butter with a piece of bread. “All I heard was… She said, ‘I’ll show you the struggles of womanhood’.”

“Vague.”

“Damned fucking vague.”

“And what were you doing at the time?”

Lambert looked uncomfortable as she glanced around the room, even though there was no one around but her, Letho and the innkeeper who was busy cleaning pans over in the kitchen. “Mighta been…. Not very respectful. Of some struggles.”

“Some struggles?”

“Might have said some things to her about how easy things are for women,” Lambert said and blushed a fetching peach pink as she stared into her bowl of stew. “Man, was I wrong…”

“So, regret ain’t gonna fix it,” Letho said, beating down his impulse to comfort the not-actually-a-girl. “Showing you the struggles of womanhood… Any chance you could get a hold of this caster? Might be easiest to just make her reverse the curse.”

“You wanna take on sorceresses?”

“We’ll figure it out on our own.”

“Thought so.”

They continued eating in silence, and then brooded on over a couple of mugs of weak ale. 

“So did you try anything?”

“What?”

“The struggles of womanhood?”

“I gotta sit down to pee,” Lambert said, shrugging. “I get groped a lot. After I grew this hair, that is.”

“But in all other respects you’ve been living like a man.”

“More or less. I can tell you tits hurt like hell when you gotta run, though, if that ain’t a damned struggle then I don’t know what might be.”

“That might not be the struggle of womanhood, though,” Letho said thoughtfully. “Might be finding the solutions and living with it is the struggle.”

“...you mean I might have to resign to living like a girl? Like get fucking underwear?”

“Best suggestion I got,” Letho said as he finished off his drink. “Unless you got some better suggestions.”

“Might be I just gotta go through the full transformation,” Lambert said, not sounding like she believed herself at all. “Maybe.”

“Or, we go look up a library.”

“I hate reading.”

“As much as you hate having tits?”

-

They spent the better part of a month riding around, visiting everything and everyone, all libraries they could get to and all wise women and druids and doctors they could pin down on their journey. 

It was in Oxenfurt everything took a turn for the worse. Letho, who did not mind at all being two at doing the bigger, more difficult contracts while researching and seeing the effects of what seemed to be a unique curse, and Lambert, who knew she needed help despite pretending not to, had taken to sharing rooms once Lambert had thrashed a few of her own when love-struck young suitors tried to visit her in the evenings. 

Letho could tell why. Despite the permanent rage and a mouth so foul she could turn milk sour at a five mile radius, she was a stunning beauty by now, albeit a stunning beauty who seemed to be in a great deal of pain by the sound of it. Letho sat in silence on his bed, listening to Lambert biting back any noises as she kept splashing about with water behind the modesty screen in the corner of the room. 

“What’s wrong this time?” he asked as he looked at his boots, wondering if he should even bother with them at all. 

“Go away!”

“I thought we were past that,” Letho said as he stood and walked carefully over to the screen. “What, you on your period or something?”

“Shut the fuck up..”

Letho raised his eyebrows and sniffed. There was definitely a scent of blood on the air. Cursing quietly to himself, Letho grabbed some towels, walked around the screen and pulled the sobbing girl out of the tub without further ceremony. Lambert was much too distraught to react, just let Letho wrap her up in a towel and put her back into her bed. He tucked another towel between her legs and pulled the blankets tightly around her before taking all the blankets from his own bed and putting them on top of her as well. 

“Stay warm, that’s the only thing that’ll help with the cramps,” he said as he sat down on the edge of the bed and rubbed Lambert’s shuddering back. 

“How’th hell do you know,” Lambert sniffed from the depths of the blankets. 

“Just ‘cause I’m a witcher doesn’t make me a stranger to women,” Letho said as Lambert groaned herself through another round of cramps. “Look, this ain’t working for you. I’ll go find that sorceress of yours, or any sorceress, if you just give me her name. You can stay here.”

“Merigold.”

“Merigold?”

“Fuckin’ Triss Merigold.”

“Alright. I’ll get some stuff sent up to you, just stay put until you’re better.”

-

It did not get better. Triss Merigold was not available, all Letho managed to get out of any sorceress he met was the name of some sorcery school or another to the south and a stern warning that if he wanted the full, personal roasted-pig-on-a-spit experience, he was of course welcome to go and knock on the door. 

By the time he returned to Oxenfurt, Lambert was over her period but still sulking indoors under all the blankets and it took a surprising amount of time to coax her into her clothes and out of the expensive room before Letho actually went bankrupt. 

In the short week Letho had been gone, Lambert had gone past stunning beauty and arrived at something near ethereal. Not even rage managed to twist her features into anything else than jaw-dropping perfection, the crowds in the street fell silent as they walked towards the stables, and when Lambert walked up a set of stairs a bard in training fainted on the spot. 

She got a horse for free. 

They went North after that, following the coast and taking down enough harpies to likely eradicate the species in the area and more than make up for Letho’s loss of money in Oxenfurt in contracts and alchemy ingredients alone. By the time they were half way to Roggeveen, Lambert refused to see people anymore, and then she refused to talk at all. 

Letho watched as Lambert sat in silence on the beach, the clouds parting above them as an unnaturally bright moon shone upon Lambert’s glossy curls, highlighting her perfectly against the suddenly calm water. It seemed whatever magic had been put on her now spread to their surroundings as well as fireflies started dancing around her, close enough to add to the picture perfection but not close enough to be annoying. 

“What the -actual- fuck…Whoa, big guy!” 

The shadowy creature behind him jumped away as Letho turned, daggers swinging. 

“Hey, calm down, I’m cat-school,” the man said, grasping for the medallion on his chest and holding it up as evidence. 

“And what’d you think you might be doing here?” Letho said, lowering his knives enough to show that even if he was not actively attempting murder right now, death could easily be brought back on the menu at the slightest provocation. 

The cat school witcher was young, probably less than half the size of Letho, with short brown hair and gear that was more scavenged cloth than actual armor. Young enough to still be stupid, but old enough to back down. 

“Best start talking, cat, or I’ll downgrade you to kitten.”

“What does that even me-”

Letho rolled his eyes and tapped the tip of his dagger to the cat-witcher’s belt buckle. “Talk.”

“Sure, just calm down,” the cat-witcher said, still struggling to take his eyes off Lambert who was now throwing things into the water. “I’m here for her. Got a contract, see, but I don’t mind, first to the target and all that, I know the rules, have at it, I’ll leave, peace between schools and all that, no trouble.”

“Now what I want you to do,” Letho started, grabbing the cat-witcher by the collar as he started backing off, “is to explain to me real nice and slow. From start to finish.”

“You know she’s throwing stuff into the water, right? That looked like a really exp-”

“Focus.”

The cat-witcher, to his credit, did not try to look down at the blade nearly embedded in his wind-pipe. “Alright, alright. I’m Aiden, I got a contract from a sorceress on that girl there, weird as fuck contract but you know, I’m not compl- fine, fine, I can see you’re getting impatient but standing on my toes like this does nothing for my concentration.”

Aiden rubbed his throat gently as Letho pulled the tip of the dagger free from his skin. 

“Anyway, as I was going to say, the contract was to find the wolf witcher girl and make her a woman until she’s a woman no more, whatever the hell that means. That’s why you’re here, right? Good money -and- a wolf witcher girl, I mean, can’t say no to a contract like that.”

Letho stared at Aiden, listened to his pulse, his breathing, but he did not pick up on anything that sounded like a lie. Perhaps Merigold had regretted the action, found the first and apparently absolutely worst witcher she could get her hands on and given him the contract of a lifetime. He looked back at Lambert, who was by now sobbing delicately into the pearly perfect beach sand and thought about what Aiden had said. 

So making Lambert into a woman, that would mean sex. He tried to fit himself into the mental framework of fucking someone like that, someone he had spent the last weeks carrying forcibly out of bar-brawls of her own making and teaching how to use menstruation-pads while getting his ears filled with too many curse words with too little variation and found that he could not connect those memories with an erection at all, especially since she was so completely female looking.

“You know what?” Letho said as he flung an arm around Aiden’s skinny shoulders, watching with some amusement as Aiden’s knees were barely able to keep up with the added weight. “I’ll let you have this one.”

“What, really?” Aiden said, trying and failing to get out of Letho’s hold. 

“See it as a gift, from a viper to a cat,” Letho said as he tapped his own chest, then Aiden’s. “Show of solidarity, all that.”

“You mean you -don’t- want to get a piece of that? I mean, I don’t mind sharing or anything, we could split the reward between us.”

“Got enough money for the winter, and looks to me like you need all you can get. Now unless you got some kinda performance issues keeping you back, I suggest you go pick her up and take her to that nice, cozy inn back there and make a woman out of her. There’s just one thing you gotta know.”

“Yeah?”

“If you don’t make this good for her, I’m gonna find you and I’m gonna skin you so slowly you won’t know if you’re more desperate to die to escape the pain or the boredom, got me?”

“Perfectly loud and clear, sir.”

“Good boy. Now get to work.” 

Letho shook his head as the cat witcher made his way down to the beach, turned on his heel and walked back towards the inn to pick up his and Lambert’s reward for the harpies and get two rooms. 

-

There seemed to be a limit to crying. Lambert did not know much about women, they sure cried easier than guys did but they had a limit to it as well. She had thought that she had cried all the tears a body was capable of crying fifteen years ago, but apparently there was plenty to spare. 

The most frustrating thing was that she started crying when she intended to be angry. It all mixed together, a confusing jumble of new reactions to things that she was not used to handling at all. Being stared at all the time did not help either, she had seen herself in the mirror plenty of times, seen how everything that used to be Lambert faded away. 

She had more or less resigned to this life now, after nearly six months with tits. Letho had not been able to help, the wording of the curse was no help at all so no sorcerer or druid or anyone were willing to even take a look at it. Going back to the wolves was not an option. She only had to imagine the looks on their faces as she walked into a keep full of performance enhanced men while looking like this to prefer dying like a witcher should; boots on, sword in hand, bested by some kind of horrendous monster. 

For a moment she thought her wishes might have been granted as she heard some gentle splashing in the sea. Maybe some kind of deep sea master of all harpies had come to take revenge, if so, Lambert had no intention of fighting it at all. She had thrown all his weapons, the medallion, everything but her clothes into the sea so she had nothing to defend herself with anyway. 

She was surprised when there was a soft thud ahead of her, the sound of things being placed in the sand and then a hand on her shoulder. 

“Hey, you.”

Lambert turned her head, momentarily pissed that the sand didn’t even have the decency to mess up her hair, it just drizzled down, adding a shimmering effect in the air as it caught the moonlight. 

“Fuck off.”

That seemed to make the man pause. He did not move his hand away, though. 

“Um, I could do that, or I could help you. Up to you, of course.”

“No one can help me,” Lambert said dramatically, though it came out in a breathy, sexy sort of way that made her groan and bury her face in her arms. 

“‘Course I can, just need to fulfill the demands of the curse and you’ll be right as rain.”

Lambert peered up from underneath her lustrous locks, saw the scruffy gear, the cat medallion, and further up the face of a young witcher metaphorically tap-dancing on quicksand if his rivaling expressions were anything to go by. He was trying to look professional and cool, but nerves and the threat of falling for worship of divine beauty were yelling to be heard as well. 

“You know about the fucking curse?”

“Bit crude to call it a fucking curse, but yeah,” the witcher said and offered his hand. “I’m Aiden, I’m here to help.”

It had been a long while since anyone even dared say hi to her, much less offer something as simple as a hand-shake. Lambert took Aiden’s hand very carefully. 

“Lambert.”

“That explains some things. So, this might be kinda awkward and I know it sounds like me being nasty but there is a cure, and that’s sex,” Aiden said as he sat down in the sand, resting his elbows on his knees. “You gotta go from girl to woman for the curse to let go.”

“Had hoped the bloody periods would have covered that,” Lambert mumbled and rolled over onto her back. 

“Some time soon someone wouldn’t have been able to keep their hands off you anyway, so you’d be sorted,” Aiden said with a slight shrug, but since he sounded put off by the idea of rape, Lambert didn’t immediately castrate him with her teeth. 

“How do you know about this anyway?” Lambert asked.

“I was going south to pick up money from a contract, when a messenger came up and gave me this contract, the contract on you, that is.”

“Fucking Triss Merigold,” Lambert sighed and wondered why she didn’t feel more pissed off about the situation than she did. Perhaps it was because all in all, Aiden seemed like the most real person she had met in months. Letho had been kind enough, but by now he reminded Lambert of Vesemir, the overbearing, strange caregiver that had seen the worst and it showed on his face when he looked at her. Aiden just seemed curious, he had not even been phased at Lambert’s name.

“Alright, but if I don’t like it at any point I’m gonna kill you.”

To her slight surprise, Aiden seemed pleased with this. He just got up, offered his hand to help Lambert up and smiled at her. 

“That’s fine, you gotta wait until your friend is done skinning me, though.”

-

The inn was in was situated in between two major cities, and was more or less the extra income of the local land-owner’s main farm since going from one town to the other in one day was impossible and not everyone had the balls to sleep outside. The building was a simple addition to the main house and had no common room or other services than a bucket of free water and a bowl of whatever slops was available for the day, but it was cheap and clean and surprisingly popular. 

Lambert’s bravado lasted the entire walk to the inn, it helped having Aiden to listen to. The kid proved to be two years younger than her, though he had been on the path for two seasons more than Lambert had. As far as she understood cat school witchers were a bit like the felines they were named after, skittish, loyal to whoever gave them treats at the time and they liked to wander. By the time they got to the room that had been reserved for them, Lambert knew most of Aiden’s life history up until that point, up to and including that his favourite food was roast chicken and that he had replaced the soles of his boots twice and gotten a real good price for it at a cobbler not far from Vizima whom he could totally recommend.

“And -that- was when I got paid in kikimore eyes, which was exactly what I needed for another contract from a druid!” Aiden concluded as he sat on the bed and pulled his boots off, having dropped his jacket off on the chair a moment before. He dropped back onto the bed, got out of his trousers and stretched luxuriously on the clean linen, looked Lambert up and down for a moment and then looked a bit uncertain. 

“Er, this is a bit easier if you take your clothes off,” he said as he toyed with the waistband of his own underwear. 

Lambert looked down at her own clothing, knowing what was underneath. A perfectly sculpted female body, not one blemish, not even a small scar, Letho had seen it a few times and not seemed to care much for it, but everyone else did and that was through the male sized leather clothing she had refused to let go of.

Apparently she had been standing there for long enough, and had been zoned out long enough to not notice Aiden move. He stood in front of her, still in his underwear, still half hard by the look of it, as he placed his hands on Lambert’s shoulders. 

“You know I ain’t gonna force you or anything but it’s the way to get this curse gone,” Aiden said. “And don’t worry about putting on a performance or anything, I’d have no clue what to do with a girl body either so I’ll do the work and we’ll get it over with.”

“Alright,” Lambert said, nodding as Aiden stepped back. It took her awhile to get the armor open and then off, her fingers were cold and uncooperative and everything seemed to move in a slow, syrupy fog, and she found that it was just as well that she could not really feel her limbs. Perhaps it was her body just preparing for what was going to happen somehow, shutting down all the feeling things so it would not be so bad, not so painful. 

She crawled onto the bed, took hold of the headboard and leaned on it, spread her knees slightly like she had seen whores do, closed her eyes and tried not to think. It worked until the bed dipped behind her, Aiden was getting into the bed, onto his knees, she could feel the heat of him as he leaned over her and wrapped his arms around her and for one wild moment she contemplated running away before she was pulled backwards. 

Lambert blinked in confusion as she ended up sitting in Aiden’s lap. He still had his underwear on and the half hard cock pressed up against her back did not seem very interested. She breathed a sigh in pure relief as she felt Aiden’s warm breath in her hair.

“‘Kay, I’m gonna need you to be honest with me,” Aiden said. “You haven’t done this before as a girl, but have you done this before as a guy?”

Lambert shook her head slowly. 

“Thought so,” Aiden mumbled and tightened his grip on Lambert when she threatened to move away. “None of that, ain’t judging. Do you feel like a guy? Now, I mean?”

“No,” Lambert said, leaning back against Aiden’s chest to leech warmth off of him. “It’s weird, I know, but… I’ve been a girl for months now. It kinda sticks, since I look like one and everyone treats me like one.”

“Do you like that?”

“I hate it.”

“You know I can sort of see through the curse, right?” Aiden said. “It’s sort of like seeing something out of the corner of my eye. I know it’s there, but I can’t look directly at it, cause then it vanishes, but I kinda got an idea what you actually look like under all this magic. If you’re a guy and want to be one you should think of yourself as one. A cursed one, sure, but still a guy.”

“How the hell is that gonna help? I got tits and a cunt, not a dick.”

“See it as a guy being given one hell of a chance at learning how to please girls?” Aiden said and Lambert could feel the smile on his face. His voice was not mocking though. “I can teach you.”

Lambert wondered what it would have been like if the curse had been instant. If the girl figure had been complete right away, without the dick-is-gone panic situation. Aiden was speaking the truth, it was just a curse after all. Maybe even a curse she could learn something from.

“Alright,” Lambert said at last. He took a deep, steadying breath and leaned back on Aiden again. “I’m Lambert, I’m a guy, cursed into a girl, and I’m in for a hell of a first time.”

“Glad to hear it,” Aiden said as he kept one arm around Lambert’s waist, starting to stroke along her… no his, it was his cursed skin, with the other. The touch was feather light and strange at first, brushing over his arms, his stomach, down along his thighs and back up again and at some point the feeling turned from just weird touching to a hypersensitive sort of tingling that made him awfully aware of his body. He could hear himself moan in the light, melodious voice he had grown to know and hate so much as the fingers circled his breasts, teasing the hard nubs of his nipples. 

“Women are not like guys when it comes to getting ready,” Aiden said as he tipped Lambert’s head back, pressing a kiss to the corner of Lambert’s mouth. “Being a guy’s more like cracking open a beer, they’re good to go, girls are like egg and bacon, best when you take your time to prepare them right.”

“That’s a fucking weird analogy.”

“Got you laughing,” Aiden said with a triumphant grin as he kissed Lambert again. “But I’m not wrong. Girls are ready when they’re wet and trying to crawl onto your dick, not before. You can fuck them when they’re dry, but that’s a bad experience for everyone involved.”

“Honestly not sure if I’m up for that,” Lambert said and blinked in confusion when Aiden jumped out of the bed and went over to the washing basin. “What are you doing?`”

“Getting this, if we’re gonna have a proper lesson you’re gonna have to see the bits,” Aiden said as he pulled a pillow down, leaned on the headboard and pulled Lambert along into their previous position, propped the pillow up in between Lambert’s spread legs and to Lambert’s horror, put a mirror there. 

“Angle the mirror so you can see yourself tits down, just about,” Aiden said. “Come on, it’s a girl curse body, not yours. Nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“It certainly feels like my body right now,” Lambert complained but did as told as curiosity won over. Besides, everything up until now had him wanting more. “Alright. I can see. Fuck, this is weird.”

“I’ll explain all of it,” Aiden said with an audible grin, deliberately misunderstanding Lambert’s words. “Alright. This, this is the outer lips. Part those, and there’s the inner lips, these pale, flimsy things here.”

“Looks like some balls having been caught between two bricks, if you know what I mean,” Lambert said and felt himself blush as Aiden just flopped them from side to side a few times. “You really gotta play with them like that?”

“They’re just there to protect the things between them,” Aiden said as he dipped his fingers in between them, and that move Lambert felt all the way to his toes. In the mirror he could see the glistening, pink flesh around a sort of pit full of soft looking, messy fleshy stuff. 

“This little thing here’s where a girl pees from,” Aiden said, before he to Lambert’s shock just dipped his finger into the wrinkly flesh below it like it was nothing. It was not painful, it was weird and he was suddenly very aware that something was actually -inside- him, but then it felt fine. There were some muscles around the opening that he could tighten and that felt even better when Aiden moved the finger a little, just a slow move in and out that seemed to call on every nerve in his entire body to respond. It was not an urgent need, and he had nothing to compare it to, perhaps the closest thing was stroking the shaft of his cock or something, but this was -inside-. 

“Now this is where dicks go in and babies come out,” Aiden said happily as he pulled his finger free, it was shiny with that slick fluid that Lambert’s body seemed to be gushing by now. 

“Fuck, it feels weird,” Lambert said in a low voice, taking a few moments to breathe. “I thought it was a lot more difficult the first time, for girls, I mean.”

“That varies,” Aiden said as he scooped up some slick stuff on his fingers. “Some girls are very tight by nature, some are tight because they’re nervous, others are well prepared because they’ve been using fingers or things long before they got a man.”

“What about the bleeding stuff? Virgin bleeding on sheets and all that?”

“Also varies, a lot don’t do that because they’ve been riding horses. Or, as said, fingers and toys,” Aiden explained. “Most of those wedding night situations are solved with a sharp knife and a sore finger, just to satisfy the relatives.”

“That’s stupid,” Lambert complained but Aiden seemed to take it in good stride. 

“Gotta agree with you on that one. Now this, this is the most important thing on a girl.”

Lambert squinted down at the mirror. 

“This thing here’s the clitoris,” Aiden said as he did not touch, just pointed. “I find it easiest to think of it as a miniature dick. It likes the same things dicks do, just has a way lower choking hazard.”

“It doesn’t look like a dick,” Lambert said, his voice dripping with skepticism. 

“It’s cause it’s underneath the skin. It starts at the top here and goes down to this area here, which is protected by this skin, sorta like foreskin on a dick, see? When we get started you’ll see there’s a shiny little nub there, it’s sort of like a miniature dickhead.”

“... and it likes the same things cocks do.”

“Mhm, exactly the same things.”

“Fuck, that’s weird.”

“And a good way of thinking of it, when you get with a girl you can just imagine what it’s like having sex without anyone playing with your cock at all.”

“Sounds boring.”

“Very,” Aiden agreed and put his hand over Lambert’s mouth to muffle the moan as he placed one slick finger on each side of Lambert’s clit, trapping it in between them and then started stroking up and down. 

“Oh fuck,” Lambert breathed once the initial shock had passed. Every single muscle in his abdomen was clenching, he could hardly sit still for the need to move and when he dared a look in the mirror he could tell what Aiden was talking about. The movement of his fingers pulled the soft skin covering the length of the clit back and forth over a pale, small nub and if he focused hard enough, he could just about see the similarities. 

Stroking his dick could not compare to this, though. It was like comparing a quick wash in the river to a hot-tub. 

He watched as Aiden gathered more slick fluids and spread it around, making the pink flesh shiny and smooth as he circled the head of the clit and that was almost too much. Lambert whined into Aiden’s bicep and tried to find a way to voice what he needed, having no idea what it might be until he got it. Two fingers slid into him, his body accepted them without protest and then he had something to clench around and -that- felt fantastic. 

“Gods, I want to taste you,” Aiden whispered into Lambert’s hair, and before Lambert knew what was up and down in the world, he was on his back with Aiden’s head between his legs, two fingers inside and a soft, wet tongue dragging over his clit and all he could do was focus on breathing and not passing out. 

What was infuriating was that Aiden kept stopping to speak, telling Lambert about the various techniques he was doing and demonstrating it until Lambert had to hold his breath or explode. There was slow licking, fast licking, circling, hard and soft tongue and then three fingers which still did not feel like enough and then Aiden, like the complete bastard that he was, closed his lips around Lambert’s clit and sucked. 

“Oh fucking hell,” Lambert gasped, trying not to kill Aiden by squeezing his head between his thighs. “Aiden, please fuck me, I can’t… Gods, I need it…”

“And that,” Aiden said as he licked his lips clean, looked up at Lambert and sent another spark of that intense, full body need up through Lambert’s insides by pressing a quick kiss to his clit. He chuckled when Lambert tried to work Aiden’s underwear off with his toes. “That is a girl ready for dick. Perfect egg and bacon.”

“I get your point, now fucking fuck me before I chop your dick off and deal with it myself,” Lambert spat, the effect somewhat ruined with how he was spreading his legs like a slut. Aiden pulled his clothes off, revealing his now rock hard cock and Lambert had never wanted anything more in his entire life. 

“Get in, get it in,” he ordered as he grabbed Aiden’s hair and pulled him down on top of himself, for a wild moment he wondered what a heart-attack felt like as he felt Aiden’s cock push into him. It was a slight pinch and stretch, not much, but good and slow and the slow drag of it felt absolutely perfect, when he was all the way in Lambert got a firm pressure to his already sensitive clit, and when he got into the rhythm of it, Lambert knew he was getting loud. 

He blinked when there was a heavy knocking on the wall and a muffled, angry request to keep it down, so he pushed a bewildered Aiden off himself, turned around and beat his delicate fist hard against the plaster until it cracked. 

“You keep your fucking mouth shut, or you’re next!” he yelled and moaned loudly when Aiden ran his hand up Lambert’s back and entered him again, and even if the girl-curse-voice made it sound a lot more suggestive than it was intended to be, it proved to at least stun whoever it was on the other side into silence. 

“You got such a delicious, filthy mouth on you,” Aiden said with a breathless laugh as he steadied himself with one hand against the mattress, reaching around and down between Lambert’s legs until he could play with his clit again. 

It was the position he had feared, but Aiden got deeper this way and the fingers rubbing his clit in little circles was enough to throw every worry and brain cell out the window and then he wondered what it would be like to be fucked like this in his male form. No pain, just having someone fuck him, touch him like this, not just chasing their own pleasure but with the goal of making Lambert’s brain leak out of his ears. He had walked in on other witchers enough times to imagine someone walking in on him and Aiden like this, Lambert with an arse full of cock and liking it. 

“Lambert, take a deep breath,” Aiden said, sounding strained as he nipped at Lambert’s shoulder, and only then did he realize he was holding his breath just like he was tensing his his entire body, like he was trying to keep his sanity in one piece. “Deep breath, and relax your muscles, let it happen.”

Lambert managed to inhale a bit of air in between some high pitched whimpers, and when Aiden repeated his order he did as told, and then the shock waves washed over him. 

He was not sure what sounds he was making but they were beyond his control, deep and primal as his entire body seemed to come, his muscles were clenching hard, over and over around Aiden’s cock and then Aiden was making the sounds as well, falling out of rhythm and grabbing Lambert’s hips as if his very life depended on it. 

It never seemed to stop, either. Lambert whimpered as Aiden pulled out and helped him down onto his back, he was absolutely exhausted but his cunt was still twitching gently, as if wanting even more dick than it had already got. 

“And that was, if I’m not completely wrong, a female orgasm,” Aiden said as he sat down on the bed next to Lambert, holding a glass of watered out mead. Lambert blinked. He had not even noticed that Aiden had moved out of the bed, much less cleaned himself up and gotten a drink. “Drink up, or you’ll regret it later.”

“Not was, it Is a female orgasm,” Lambert said as he grabbed the glass and downed it all in one go. “It’s not st- it’s not stopping.”

“It will,” Aiden said as he handed a damp towel to Lambert and crawled back into the bed. “You want to clean up a little, or you’ll get crusty.”

“Ergh. You had to say the word.”

“Crusty?”

Lambert slapped a laughing Aiden with the towel before he sat up and did the best he could with his limited energy levels before dropping down onto his back again. 

“Honestly, not sure how girls get anything done at all,” Lambert mumbled as he closed his eyes, absurdly happy that Aiden was still there, that he was pulling the blankets up over them and settling down next to him as if it was all routine for them both. 

“Not all men have had the excellent sex education provided by your friendly local cat witcher Aiden,” Aiden said and he was all lazy smiles and blushing pink as Lambert turned his head to look at him.

“Gods fucking awkward weird education,” Lambert mumbled as he closed his eyes and missed out on how the vibrations of the cat school medallion resting against Aiden’s shoulder intensified for a moment, only to stop entirely when Aiden closed his eyes. 

-

It was early the next morning when Lambert woke up to the sound of mumbled conversation by the door, so he kept his eyes closed, faked sleep, and listened in with his heart in his throat. 

“I’ll be going south for the winter anyway, meet up with some more vipers,” Letho said, his deep baritone voice carrying through the furniture. “You keep this, I’ll take the contract.”

“Saves us both going the wrong way,” Aiden said, as the better whisperer of the two. “Fucking sorceresses, ey.”

“Ain’t sticking my dick in crazy, unlike some,” Letho said and huffed. “Stick to witchers and whores, ‘s my advice.”

“Ain’t that the fucking truth.”

“Don’t let his language rub off on you, kittycat,” Letho said and there was the sound of a ham sized hand meeting skin and bone, the rustle of armor that had to be a handshake, and then the door closed. 

Lambert was not at all sure if he was alone. His hopes said he was not, his fears said they had both left, blind terror piped up from the back and insisted the sex hadn’t worked and he would be stuck as a girl forever, and as he counted his heartbeat and got to triple digits, the fears started overwhelming the hope. 

His mind was so loud with pulsing blood and looming panic that he did not notice anything at all until the bed dipped very slowly and very slightly in front of him, and it took him a moment to realize it was Aiden trying to sneak unnoticed back into bed. He forced his breath to calm down, pulled on every nasty mutation, meditation trick and witcher breathing skills to keep his breath and pulse calm, wanting to open his eyes but not daring to as he had no idea what he would be seeing when he did, it could be the pity of a witcher who failed in his task, or the disgust of one who was having to fake sleep next to a male witcher or anything in between and Lambert was not sure he was able to survive either of the options.

What he did get was a moment of stillness as Aiden settled down in front of him, and then, to Lambert’s surprise, Aiden pressed a gentle, sweet kiss to his brow and stroked his hand through Lambert’s short hair, down his neck, brushing his collarbone before settling in between them, his knuckles tickling the dusting of black hair on Lambert’s flat chest. 

It was over. It was all over, and he was not alone.

Aiden did not mind at all as Lambert wrapped his arms around him and held him until he had calmed down, he just hummed contently and let Lambert do what he wished. 

“Welcome back,” Aiden said when Lambert’s grip turned a little less desperately vice-like. 

“I can’t believe it worked,” Lambert managed to say after clearing his throat a few times. 

“All parts present and accounted for,” Aiden said as he reached down and tapped Lambert’s cock with his fingertips. “Now, I got a question for you.”

“Huh?” Lambert said intelligently as he was stuck marveling at the size of his own hand, the stubble on his face and the lack of boobs. 

“Now that you lost your girl-virginity,” Aiden said, dragging the words out as he stretched like the cat he was in the beam of sunlight, watching Lambert with the kind of saucy little smile that made Lambert’s cock, his actually present and hardening penis, catch interest. “Wanna lose your guy-virginity as well?”


	12. ❝i have several questions, first off WHY?❞

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lambert/Emhyr with a side of Mererid. R for sex-games and murder. Ciri/Morvran present but not explicit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by the ever wonderful [quills_at_dawn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quills_at_dawn/pseuds/quills_at_dawn)

❝i have several questions, first off WHY?❞

Lambert was too late. Always too damn fucking late, and this time it was someone who mattered. 

‘Hey, assassins are coming, please let me in so I can kill them!’

That was what he should have told the palace guards in Vizima and in retrospect Lambert recognized that what he’d actually said was less explanatory, less polite, and had not helped matters at all. 

In the moment, what he’d wanted to do was kill the guards. Just shove some swords in here and there to stop the questions — who he was didn’t matter, how he knew didn’t matter, he didn’t know why there were assassins in the first place, nor where, nor what, but none of that, _ none _ of that mattered. 

They were coming, and they had to be stopped.

Through their endless questions and his garbled answers, he’d felt the subtle, urgent thrum of his medallion against his chest. 

He could not reach up and touch it, his arms were restrained as they tried getting his weapons off of him, so he looked down and as he watched, the vibration intensified. He was not even past the gates.

With a curse, he first managed to put a subtle Axii on the guard holding his weapons, making him pause for just a moment.

“Watch out, he’s using-!”

A shove of Aard freed him from the guards holding him back, and the guard handed him his swords as he ran past, the mind-control overriding the logic. He pulled free his silver sword, just in case, dropped the rest and charged through the courtyard and the soldiers rushing in to stop him, but they were not used to fighting witchers, at least not fighting witchers who cared only about getting past them. 

He blasted himself a passageway through, sending soldiers flying, mind controlled the ones at the gate for the few seconds he needed to slip under the closing portcullis then make sure they kept it closed behind him for as long as the spell would hold. The corridor beyond seemed to stretch for miles. He stumbled when something caught him in the back, turned, and sent a blaze of fire down behind him to deter anyone from following him, crashed shoulder first into the door at the end. And found it locked.

No time. He didn’t have time for this. A couple of crossbow bolts hit the door right next to his head, so he turned, deflected a few more bolts with his sword until he reached a door a few steps further back, found it unlocked, stepped into the room beyond, kicked the door shut and melted the lock with Igni to buy himself another few seconds of time.

The stairs were infuriating, the steps turning the wrong way around, they were narrow and worn, putting him in danger of slipping backwards at any moment as he hauled himself up, the vibration of his medallion almost audible now. Something was terribly wrong with his back as well but he had to push through it for now — if climbing some finicky stairs was giving him problems he would stand no chance against whatever came next.

As he got to the top of the stairs and flung a few soldiers down them to stop them from firing crossbow bolts at him, he heard the shouting coming from below. It was audible and clear, and he realized he was atop the gallery encircling the ballroom below. There were soldiers standing guard, and dozens of archways curtained with bright blue gauze, providing a semblance of privacy for the occupants of the alcoves. Firing crossbow bolts up here was a danger, they could hit civilians, which meant he had a moment or two to prepare.

One moment. No more. 

The sound of thunder was already closing in. He did not know what he would face, it could be anything, and he had already taken a werewolf decoction to get to the palace in time and there had been contracts before that. He had no time to think, to calculate how much he could handle before the potion sickness turned lethal, but even that would take a while to kill him and he would spend that time killing as many as possible.

The two small bottles smashed onto the floor as he put one foot on the banister and jumped, catching the edge of one of the long banners hanging above the hall to break his fall just as the air crackled beneath him, the smell of ozone and sulfur burned as bad as the potions spreading through his body and he landed in the middle of the lightning, taking two heads with one swipe of his sword. 

From then on, he just let instinct do its work, reflexes beaten into him to perfection. Parry, dodge, attack — never sticking to a pattern, never hesitating or making a single move whose purpose was not dealing death or preventing his own. It was not pretty killing, but it was effective. Men bled to death around him where they fell, trying to stem the bleeding from where Lambert had found the second he needed to run a blade through an unprotected major artery. There were a lot more attackers than he had thought there would be, but the guards were also streaming in in front of the throne, crossbow bolts were thudding into the black-clad assassins left and right, and as he parried the strike from one man and used the rebound to send the guts of another spilling over the polished ballroom floor, he cast quen on himself and wondered why just as a wave of fire washed over him.

The protective spell held, the fire caught the last couple of assassins in the face and licked up the banners hanging from the rafters.

He had heard nothing about a combat sorcerer being involved in the plans.

“Stay down, mutt!” the sorcerer hissed, and only then did Lambert realize he was on his knees, having slipped in the blood. He heard his name being shouted and staggered to his feet, fighting off nausea as behind the two lines of guards shielding the throne, there was a flash of white. The sorcerer had turned, his hands raised in the making of a spell, crossbow bolts deflecting off his silver cloak as if they were flies against a windowpane. Another flash, and the sorcerer vanished for a second only to reappear in a third flash of white coming from up in the rafters.

The shriek seemed to go on forever, a spell flashed in the air and broke the sorcerer’s fall as he dropped to the ground just in front of Lambert. The fall broke the spell and then the sorcerer’s ankles, and the man wailed as he looked down and collapsed to the ground, writhing in pain. Lambert shut him up with the pommel of his blade — perhaps he cracked the man’s skull, perhaps not, but he had tried to and now he did not care anymore. He was on all fours in a pool of dead men and blood and piss and guts, people were screaming everywhere around him and again, the sound of his name.

Slender arms turned him over onto his side, and at some point he had apparently just dropped down into the mess on the floor, he could not recall having done so but the room was just as loud, filled with screaming and panic so it could not have been for that long.

He frowned as he opened his eyes. He could not focus, but the ashen grey and the bright green was familiar. 

She lived. 

Ciri was alive, she was talking to the guards encircling them, everything was fine and he had not been too late, so he closed his eyes and gave in to the pull towards the peaceful, numbing darkness of unconsciousness.

-

When Lambert woke up he was very surprised that he was not in chains in a dungeon. That was what usually happened when you killed people in public, no matter your reasons or good intentions. 

It was warm, he was in a bed and he was, even more surprisingly, surrounded by people. When he opened his eyes, he stared at the ceiling for a while before closing them again.

Logic told him it was a dream, but dreams were not this painful.

He was back at Kaer Morhen.

They were in one of the upstairs central rooms of the keep, the one that Eskel had refurbished for the winter a couple of years ago. The keep was much too large and broken for them to maintain after the collective destruction dealt by angry locals and the Wild Hunt. So Eskel had taken one of the bigger rooms with a fireplace and build a massive bed there. 

He’d borrowed the idea from a Skellige longhouse he had once visited, where the sides of the house had basically been one long bed from edge to edge, piled up with furs. Visitors and locals alike slept where they liked, fucked slowly and quietly so as not to wake the rest and kept warm and most of all, safe, in the very same room that they did everything else from feasting to holding war council. The witchers had made use of the new room ever since Eskel had made the thing, giving up on their own cold chambers.

Now that Geralt had moved to Toussaint, it was usually just him and Eskel these days, and whoever else decided to visit and wanted to join. Keira was very fond of it and Lambert did not mind sharing her and the games they played with Eskel; Dandelion had taken to the idea very quickly when he’d last visited, dejected, broke and hurt by his latest failing enterprise, having no objection to falling asleep in safety under a comforting pile of warmth and gentle witchers. He knew Letho had visited, though never when Lambert was there, and once he had caught the scent of juniper, human and elf in it as well. Even Yennefer sometimes joined them when she dropped by to experiment on something or help with the wards. He liked her a lot more now that she had solved her issues with Geralt and gotten rid of that Triss complex of hers.

Now he could not pick up the scents of any of the usual suspects, so he opened his eyes.

There was a mass of grey hair to his left, and a delicate, but strong arm on his chest. Ciri was asleep, but she looked fine and alive. On his right there was an unfamiliar presence, an older man sleeping with the dedication of the truly exhausted. Lambert sat up carefully, every muscle and sinew protesting as he shifted Ciri’s hand from his chest and down to the mattress next to her, then frowned as there was an arm over her waist as well. Another unfamiliar man, this one younger, younger than he looked but constant worry had aged him beyond his years. He was pressed up against Ciri’s back, holding her close.

He knew she was going to be married. He couldn’t recall the name.

It took him a while to get to the edge of the bed, but when he did, he found the chamberpot where he’d expected it to be, lifted it without making too much noise, then unlaced his blissfully clean underwear and relieved the pressure in his bladder.

It was just as well that he was done pissing,had put the lid back on the pot and stowed it away under the bed before the hulking figure in the chair turned a page.

“You murdered thirteen would be assassins in front of me not long ago,” Emperor Emhyr var Emreis said, his voice low and calm as Lambert hurriedly stuffed his cock in his pants. “Relieving yourself in front of me should be of little importance in comparison.”

“Oh fuck.”

“A true witcher’s comment if I ever heard one,” Emhyr said, not unkindly, never taking his eyes from his book. “I imagine you have questions.”

Lambert took in his surroundings. The keep was as empty as it used to be, only six guards were in the room and four of them were asleep on mattresses they must have hauled in from other rooms, else it was just the four of them in bed, and the Emperor. 

It was pretty logical. Ciri had taken her future husband, her father, what had to be her father’s personal servant, six guards they apparently trusted and himself back to Kaer Morhen using her travel magic. It meant that whatever attempt Lambert had stopped was not an isolated event. Vizima was probably getting a roundup of traitors, and it was likely considered unsafe since a sorcerer had managed to teleport into a room warded up to its metaphorical eyeballs against magical intrusion. No palace would be safe, so Ciri had taken them all to the one place she did trust, and the most unlikely one to bring the ruling family of most of the known continent to.

He did not know where to begin, so he just shrugged, winced, and looked at his hand. It was lined with black.

“Fortunately for you, Mererid spent his mandatory military service keeping soldiers alive,” Emhyr said, tucking a piece of parchment into the book he was reading, closing it and resting it on his knee. 

Deep within the bear-skin furs and a large cloak, his pale face turned slightly and tired, golden eyes met Lambert’s. 

“He pulled three crossbow bolts out of you, mended a collapsed lung and stitched up a torn artery. If you were not of witcher make, you would have been dead. Still, we are grateful for your service.”

Lambert looked at the bottle the Emperor offered him. It was one of his own, golden oriole.

“Cirilla said to leave you be,” Emhyr explained as Lambert took the bottle. “Though leaving a man to die from his own potions seems counter-intuitive.”

“It is difficult to breathe while this kicks in,” Lambert mumbled, opening the seal of the bottle with some difficulty. He eyed the contents and downed it all. “You have to force yourself to breathe at first. Can’t do that if I’m unconscious.”

“Healing potions… swallow, I believe it is called, was apparently also out of the question.”

“It’s as much poison as the others,” Lambert mumbled and felt his skin warming up, and his breathing growing shallow. He forced his ribs to expand, pulling in more air. “It would have killed me.”

“I am starting to understand why I was advised against torturing witchers, it is difficult to cause adequate pain to someone who is so used to tormenting themselves just to gain a minor edge in combat,” Emhyr mused, watching him. 

Lambert glanced at the Emperor, white flame of ladila or whatever. The man was sitting quite comfortably in a thick pair of woolen socks and a pair of leather clogs with wooden soles that he thought belonged to Eskel. The cloak was a black wool blanket that had been hastily converted into a robe, tied at the waist with an old leather belt. Despite the odd clothing, Emhyr looked as imposing as ever.

Now that he noticed it, everyone, the guards included, was dressed in makeshift clothing and borrowed witcher garments. The man beside him was wearing one of Vesemir’s old shirts, Ciri was in one of Geralt’s shirts, her future husband in a soft leather jerkin that had been taken out of storage. The guards were dressed in spare clothing as well, several pairs of wool socks to fight off the cold from the floor and wool blankets draped in layers over their shoulders.

“Cirilla’s aim was a little off,” Emhyr explained. “She dropped us in the river just beyond the gate. Considering the circumstances in which we left, and the several stops we made on the way to throw off any followers, she did well.”

“How long has it been?” Lambert asked, trying to remember to breathe.

“Four hours,” Emhyr said and turned his gaze back to the fire.

“Any news?”

“The only people who know we are here are all currently in this room, if I had any news I would be greatly alarmed by the incompetence of my staff,” Emhyr said. “How did you know there would be an attack tonight?”

“I have very good hearing,” Lambert said. “They had rented a room next to mine where I was… entertaining company.”

“Plotting regicide in a brothel,” Emhyr muttered and shook his head.

“They were damn subtle about it,” Lambert said, turning the empty flask over and over in his hand. “Speaking of it like a game, or a hunt. I didn’t pick up on it before one of them made a mistake and mentioned your name. As far as I understood, they were gonna kidnap Ciri and force you to stay on the throne and put the blame on someone named Morbrad or something. They didn’t go into detail about why they were doing it.”

“Morvran Voorhis, her fiance,” Emhyr said, staring at the fire as if it had personally offended him, although if the fire had actually offended the Emperor, it would probably have disappeared under mysterious circumstances by now. Lambert looked to the man who was holding on to Ciri as if his life depended on it, and it probably did, and Emhyr nodded when he looked back again.

“You trust him?”

Emhyr nodded again, and when Lambert did not reply in any way other than looking at the floor, the Emperor got to his feet and walked over to the foot of the bed until he stood directly in front of him.

He turned his head away when Emhyr’s fingertips brushed against his jaw, pushed the hand away when that did not work, but Emhyr did not relent. Lambert frowned and stayed still when Emhyr touched his jaw a third time with the calm and unstoppable patience of a man used to getting his way eventually. He let Emhyr tilt his head back, forcing him to look up, and saw a glint of gods-damned approval when he met the other’s gaze.

“This is important, witcher. I trust everyone in this room with my life,” Emhyr said, his grip on Lambert’s jaw tightening when he tried to look away. “I trust everyone in this room with my daughter’s life. Now, get back into bed.”

Something must have shown, there was no other reason for the hard look in Emhyr’s eyes and for the firm grip on his jaw to soften like that. The hand never left his skin, it brushed back along the stubble on his cheek, the fingertips stroking through the soft, short hair behind his ear. It did not touch Lambert’s neck or shoulder, nor the top of his head, just this odd little caress that he had only ever known witchers to do. It showed no sign of stopping, either, not until the nasty spike of adrenaline wore off.

“You are still injured,” Emhyr said, his voice as much of a whisper as he could manage. “You should rest.”

Lambert nodded. His brain was still not working right, the panic was so close he could smell it, he knew he was an adult witcher, even wounded like this he was after all capable of killing with his bare hands, he was surrounded by nine other people who could and would prevent anything happening but some part of him was a kid again and entirely helpless and alone. He could not solve it with violence like he usually did, and he was too weak to get up and run away from the pit opening under him.

In the end it was Emhyr who chose for him. The Emperor knelt on the bed, pulled the furs and blankets back and when Lambert understood how ill he really was, he let himself be helped backwards until he could lay down next to Ciri again. The girl blinked as the bed was jostled beneath her, placed her hand back on Lambert’s chest and fell asleep again with a sigh as Morvran shifted his grip on her.

Lambert frowned slightly as Emhyr kicked his clogs off and lay down in between Lambert and his servant, close enough to let his back press up against Lambert’s arm and side. Touching, but not touching, respectful of the fear of a wounded witcher without his pack, and that was enough to make Lambert relax.

He must have fallen asleep at some point, because he woke up to the feeling of a hand stroking gently over his cheek.

“Lambert? Are you sleeping?”

“Not anymore, thanks to you,” Lambert grumbled and pushed Ciri’s hand away. He could have sworn that he could hear her grin. In many ways she had not changed one bit since he had taught her how to fight. She never feared him.

“Good. Drink up, your lung is still whistling,” she whispered and tucked a small bottle of swallow into his hand. “Morvran and I are going to the… kitchen. To get a snack. We’ll be back later.”

“Is that what you kids call it these days,” Lambert asked as he picked up the scent of warm skin, expensive spices and youthful arousal lingering in the blankets and furs behind him. Ciri just winked at him, kissed him on the cheek and crawled out of bed. Lambert turned his head slightly and watched Morvran standing slightly hunched over by the door, his hand outstretched as Ciri tip-toed over the cold floor to join him.

Lambert smiled despite himself, closed his eyes, drank the potion and found that he was glad that she had found some sort of happiness, even if it likely would not last. Ciri had been robbed of so much in her life. He bit back a groan as the potion worked through the last remaining injuries, taking away the biting pain in his back and soon enough he could take a proper, deep breath. Once it had mostly run its course, he closed his eyes against the glow from the fire and curled up, leeching warmth from the bed’s remaining occupants.

He realized a little too late that he was snuggling up against the Emperor, and when he did realize, it was too late to pretend it had not happened. When what proved to be Mererid’s inquisitive fingertips touched his crotch, it was also too late to pretend that his cock was not interested.

Lambert was not good enough at Nilfgaardian to pick up on the words Mererid mumbled to Emhyr, nor did he understand the reply, but there was a sound that could have been a kiss and then Emhyr sat up and started taking his robes off. Mererid sat up as well, kneeling beside Lambert and pushing him gently over onto his back before working the laces of his clothing open so he could reveal Lambert’s cock.

Emhyr cast a glance at it, seemed to consider it for a moment, before nodding.

“It will do.”

“Aren’t you gonna ask me if-”

“You are of course within your right to voice your displeasure,” Mererid said as he pulled a satchel closer and found a bottle inside, dumped most of it onto his hand and quickly slicked up Lambert’s cock without further comment.

It had been a while. 

Lambert had not been able to get further than a faceful of tits before he had to run and kill assassins, and he had hired that girl once he realized the dry spell he had been stuck in the past few months had been severe enough to make everything up to and including fruit and pillows look sexy, so when Mererid held his cock in place so the Emperor could sit on it, the relief drowned the self preservation instincts with plenty to spare.

“Open your eyes, wolf,” Emhyr said, sounding as cold and calm and calculating as always. 

Lambert felt the bed dip slightly at his side when Mererid sat next to him, leaning on one hand as he watched his lord and master fuck himself on witcher cock with the infuriating patience of a glacier. Lambert did as told, opened his eyes and swallowed thickly.

Emhyr was as formidable in this position as he was behind a desk or on a throne. Underneath the usual strict, perfected garments he normally wore, the black leather and gold, he was surprisingly fit for a middle aged man. Softened by age, scarred, but strong, Lambert found himself placing his hands on the coiling muscles in Emhyr’s thighs as he moved, stroking the golden skin haloed in the firelight blazing behind him. It cast his face in darkness and between them, all Lambert could see was the shadow of his own erection coated in enough oil to grease up half a regiment get swallowed up by Emhyr’s too-warm body. The noise of it was obscene.

“Do not touch his imperial majesty without invitation,” Mererid said, gently plucking Lambert’s unresisting hands from Emhyr’s thighs.

“Wh… I can fuck him but I can’t touch him?” Lambert managed to say before Emhyr did some sort of squeeze and pull movement with his arse that nearly made Lambert swallow his tongue.

“I see,” Mererid said, watching Lambert with a lazy, disapproving expression that confused the hell out of Lambert’s libido. “Sir is not aware that he is not, as he so crudely says, fucking his imperial majesty. I wish to inform sir that he has merely presented an acceptable erection which I then prepared for his majesty’s pleasure.”

“Oh fuck,” Lambert gargled while recounting all the potion ingredients he could come up with.

“That would be ‘Oh fuck, your imperial majesty,’ please,” Mererid said over the continuous low whine coming from Lambert.

“Repeat after Mererid, witcher,” Emhyr said, as he sat back, pinning Lambert’s hips to the mattress as he reached down and touched himself. Lambert swallowed thickly as a few drops of pre-cum dripped onto his stomach and wondered how the hell his life had turned out this way. He closed his eyes.

“Look at me.”

Emhyr’s voice was not angry, not commanding, it was strong and firm with the absolute certainty that Lambert would do as he was told, so Lambert found himself opening his eyes and looking up at Emhyr, feeling his stomach jump slightly whenever a new drop of fluid dripped onto his skin.

“I apologize,” he started, taking a deep breath as Mererid raised his eyebrows. Lambert licked his lips and forced the words out. “Oh fuck… your imperial majesty.”

“Are you implying that you wish to do so, witcher?” Emhyr asked.

“Or is it perhaps a clever way to disguise sir’s pitiful attempt at insulting his imperial majesty,” Mererid said in a cold voice and Emhyr hummed thoughtfully at that, even as he rolled his hips slightly.

“No, no, that was what you said I sh-”

“Is sir implying that I coerced him into insulting his majesty?” Mererid said, his voice dropping to freezing even as Emhyr started riding him properly, leaning back with his hands gripping Lambert’s quivering thighs for support.

“Mererid, remind me, did I give the witcher permission to look away?”

“His majesty did not.”

“Insolent beast,” Emhyr grumbled as Mererid snapped his fingers in front of Lambert’s face to get his attention.

“Keep your lowly gaze upon your master, wolf.”

Lambert had no chance holding back after that one, it was too much, their words and seeing the emperor fucking himself onto Lambert’s cock, Mererid stopping him from touching anything and just being used like this, he threw his head back and managed to not quite scream as he came, filling the arse of Emhyr the damned Emperor to the brim with warm spunk.

“Your hand, please, my dear Mererid.”

Lambert blinked himself out of the temporary coma he seemed to have lapsed into, only to see Emhyr sitting with Lambert’s slowly wilting cock still inside him, jerking off with more decorum than should be humanly possible while watching Lambert. Mererid sat next to him, seeming to find this entire situation perfectly normal as he cupped his hand and held it to the tip of Emhyr’s cock just in time to catch a handful of royal cum.

Emhyr’s expression softened by a fraction during the few moments it took him to catch his breath, and then, to Lambert’s horror, he leaned forward, one hand pressed into the mattress beside Lambert’s head.

“Lambert, of the Witcher school of the Wolf,” Emhyr said and Lambert could do nothing but stare. Emhyr was still haloed by the blazing fire behind him and speaking with complete conviction of a man used to leading nations in religious ceremonies as he dipped two fingers into the cooling spunk in Mererid’s hand. “For your sterling service to your lord and master, I anoint you with the Blessing of Life, the Holy Seed of Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep Morvudd.”

The two fingers touched his forehead by his left temple, and slowly painted two long lines in cum across Lambert’s forehead. Then Emhyr gracefully got to his feet and raised his hands slowly to shoulder height, looking as if he was raising the sun himself. That was when the soldiers behind them, guards that Lambert had completely forgotten about, shouted out variants of the Sun’s blessing upon his holy majesty, and that was when Lambert’s sanity broke down and he bolted out of the room.

A few minutes later he was furiously washing the oil, which proved to be of the difficult-to-remove-kind, off his cock when the door opened behind him. He turned around, wash cloth firmly placed over his roughened up cock and the fact he was not that bothered that it was Ciri just proved that he was out of his mind by now.

“Father said I might find you here,” Ciri said. She had the same kind of silly little smile on her face that Geralt got whenever he had been blissfully fucked, so apparently her husband had done good by her, which was just as well for him or Lambert would have had to whip out the thumb-screws, politics and diplomacy be damned.

“He said you might be a bit… frazzled.”

“Frazzled?” Lambert asked and pointed to his forehead. “He blessed me with jizz! In front of everyone!”

It did not help that she started laughing, and it definitely made it worse when she walked over, picked up a wash-cloth, dipped it in the water and wiped his face clean of her own father’s cum.

“My father and Mererid have been side by side for well over thirty years, Lambert, and they’ve known each other since Emhyr was born,” she said as she tossed the wash-cloth into a hamper. “They share a bed, they share food, wine, everything, and it is always observed by at least four of his closest guards, all day, every day, and because of that they have developed a somewhat odd sense of humor over the years. But trust me, this is just them having a bit of fun at your expense, and fun is rare to come by for an emperor and his chamberlain.”

“It seemed bloody serious enough to me,” Lambert said, but could not really keep up the anger now. Ciri had always had that effect on him.

“What, my father blessing you?” Ciri asked, raising an eyebrow suggestively. “They’re just messing with you. Take heart in the fact that they trust you enough to actually do that. Now clean up and come back to bed or I’ll teleport you into it as you are.”

“As you command, princess,” Lambert said sourly as Ciri turned and left him to it.

When he felt clean enough, and dressed enough, after he found a pair of spare shorts that was probably Geralt’s, he returned to the chambers as quickly as he could since the humiliation did not burn brightly enough to keep him warm any longer, and he tried not to think too much as he attempted to walk casually over to the bed. 

The only one awake was Emhyr, and the only space available was Lambert’s old spot, in between the snuggly Ciri and Morvran, and Emhyr, with a very content-looking Mererid stretched out on the far end. Lambert did not realize he had been stalling until Emhyr pulled the covers back in invitation.

Well. He was cold, the bed was warm. It was a simple choice to make, and not one he regretted when Emhyr pulled the covers up all the way to Lambert’s ears before stroking a big, gentle hand over his head.

“Thank you, Lambert.”


	13. ❝do i have anything on my shirt?❞

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dandelion/Geralt, warnings for buttsex (con but forced/brutal if squeamish), sort of mind-control, what is real/what is nightmares, blood and potion OD (because I love that). 
> 
> The kind of HC that needed to get written down and out of the way to make room for other things. Possibly quite OOC since this is our bois being tired.

❝do i have anything on my shirt?❞

“If only you did,” Dandelion said as the fiery red-head chuckled and swayed to the music. “If you did, my wandering gaze could be more easily excused, but I fear, alas, that it is all due to your unrivaled beauty.”

She laughed as he caught her in his arms. Warm, cheerful dancers bumped into them as they swayed gently to the music, but the two of them only had eyes for each other. Dandelion stroked a wayward lock of hair away from her face, her green eyes shimmered in the light from the lamps hanging over the plaza and she smiled with well-feigned modesty as he licked his lips. 

“Oh, master Dandelion,” she said, loud enough to be heard over the cheers, the song and the music filling the summer night with life. “Do I perhaps have something on my face?”

“Such wonderful things,” Dandelion said as the song ended and the music slowed down as three of the troubadours left the stage to have a piss and some more wine. “Such wonders, that even a poet might be struck dumb. For how can one choose one feature, when all I see upon your face is perfection?” 

She laughed and placed her hands on his hips, pressing their bodies together so Dandelion’s cock pushed up against the satin cloth, he could feel how it hardened as his gaze roamed over her face. 

“Tell me, master Dandelion,” she said and bit her lip. 

“I should write a dozen ballads and still not find the words to describe your eyes,” Dandelion said, trying to find the words through the haze filling his mind as the back of her hand discreetly felt the shape of his cock through his clothing. “How can I, who am but a mortal man, make simple words express the sh-”

“Master Dandelion!”

“This is not a good time, sir,” Dandelion said, still staring at the girl’s plump, red lips. A man had pushed his way through the slow dancing crowd and stood wringing his hands now, trying to get Dandelion’s attention. “I am sure it can wait until-”

“Master Dandelion, a thousand apologies,” the man said and this time Dandelion turned his head to look at him. He was one of the men Dandelion had seen when he had hired a box for his horse at the stables, back then he had been very hospitable, now he looked like he was about to panic.

“Well?” Dandelion said as the girl put her hands on her hips, visibly annoyed now. The stable-hand looked at the girl, then at Dandelion, stepped closer and lowered his voice slightly. 

“Everyone knows your famous songs about the witcher, the white wolf, master Dandelion,” the man said. “I pray that you know him as well as you seem to, for I don’t know who else to turn to.”

“Stop speaking in riddles, man,” Dandelion said, but he was feeling the cold sweat on his back now. The man looked spooked, paler than he should be, and he was speaking of Geralt. “Tell me what is going on.”

“Please, master Dandelion, follow me?”

He turned to excuse himself to the girl, but she had already found some of her friends, by the look of it and was ignoring him in the usual way women ignored men; by standing with her back to him, laughing and running her hands over a slightly stunned looking fiddler. By her side stood two of her girlfriends, they were glancing repeatedly at Dandelion and quite obviously giving her reports on how he was reacting to her having fun with someone else. 

“Please?”

“Yes, fine,” Dandelion sighed. “Lead the way. But this better be important.”

“Trust me, master,” the man said as he hurried up the hill as fast as a slightly intoxicated Dandelion could follow. “I apologize once more, I simply did not know what to do, I… he looks dead, but he is breathing, and…”

If Dandelion was to write the feeling down on paper, it would have been something like a dagger of ice piercing his chest, spreading its chill throughout his body, numbing him as terror struck his heart. He knew that logically, if Geralt was going to die, he would not come back. That was the thing with witchers, they fought until there was nothing left, if they survived long enough to get back to civilization there was always a chance they would pull through with help and their enhanced healing. Dying witchers tended to disappear. 

He found no solace in the thought as they reached the top of the hill. In front of the looming, dark forest, the inn and stables stood like a small fortress separating the village from the wilderness. Just outside the stables, a dark brown mare stood on three legs while eating some fresh hay from a bucket, and on her back, hunched forward with his hands buried in the mare’s mane, sat Geralt of Rivia. Dandelion remembered to breathe, and then rushed forward. 

“Geralt?” he asked, looking up at the witcher but he could not see his face in the dark. 

“I tried talking to him,” the stable-hand said as he walked up behind Dandelion, still wringing his hands and speaking in a low voice as if Geralt was already dead. 

“He is alive,” Dandelion said as he reached up and pried Geralt’s fingers out of Roach’s mane. “Help me get him down.”

The stable-hand hesitated, even taking a step back as Geralt made a low, pained sound when Dandelion finally managed to pull his hands free. 

“He is not a danger to you,” Dandelion said as he got Geralt’s feet out of the stirrups. “Just help me get him down, this looks much worse than it is.”

Together they managed to drag Geralt backwards off the saddle, and the action seemed to wake Geralt from his desperate meditation, enough to make him stand shakily on his own two legs. Dandelion got one of Geralt’s arms over his shoulders and glanced back at the stablehand. 

“Take care of the horse, please, find someone to check her leg,” Dandelion said quietly. “We’ll pay for it in the morning.”

“I will,” the stable-hand said, already at the horse’s side, patting her flank. “No obvious wound, she probably just pulled a muscle or something.”

“Have someone look at her anyway,” Dandelion said as he started on the long, slow journey over to the door to the inn, about fifteen steps away. He had to move slowly, try to guide Geralt more than drag him since Geralt was perfectly able to shut himself down completely if he could not take it anymore and Geralt’s dead weight took three grown men to shift. 

The stairs to the second floor took them even longer than the walk over to the door and the inn was empty, which meant there was no help in sight, so Dandelion patiently helped Geralt up the stairs, lifting his legs when Geralt could not, steadying him when he lost his balance. Half an eternity later they reached the door to Dandelion’s rooms. 

He managed to get Geralt to sit on the edge of the bed and had just lit the candles so he could find his way around the room when there was a knock at the door. 

“Master Dandelion?” the stable-hand said as he worked the door open and backed into the room. “I brought warm water and bandages, I figured you might need them.”

“Yes, thank you,” Dandelion said as he knelt in front of Geralt, lighting a lamp to get a good look at him. Geralt was very pale, his brows drawn down into a tight grimace. There was no reaction when Dandelion tried to pat his cheek. 

Getting Geralt out of the type of armour that was mostly buckles was time-consuming. In addition, the armour was strapped on hard, it was tight-fitting and made to hold Geralt together even if he got broken inside it so it took him a little while to get the boots off. He had to pour water into the gloves to get them unstuck from Geralt’s hands, the blood had coagulated inside them and Dandelion found himself mumbling thanks to the stablehand as the man took the items one by one and rinsed them out as best he could before hanging them up to dry. 

The jacket was the worst bit, and Dandelion worked slowly at getting the buckles open, figuring out how this particular set could be dismantled as much as possible so he would not   
have to move Geralt around too much. 

“You’ve done this a lot?” the stable-hand said as Dandelion handed him the pauldrons. 

“A few times,” Dandelion said as he opened the front of the jacket and breathed a sigh in relief when Geralt seemed more or less solid under there. Nothing was spilling out, at least, that was a start, and feeling a bit more confident, Dandelion got Geralt out of the rest of his clothes and on to a blanket so he would not bleed all over the bed. 

“That’s a lot of blood..”

“And most of it is his. It reeks of black blood, too.”

“Black blood?”

“It’s a potion the witchers use,” Dandelion said as he managed to un-peel Geralt’s soaked shirt from his body and reveal the problem underneath. “Yeah, he ran into some sort of vampire. Black blood poisons his blood, so it makes the vampires slow and sick if they bite him.”

“Doesn’t that mean… he will be a vampire?”

“No more than a bite from a cat will make you into a cat-man.”

“I’ll take this downstairs, the maid will clean it up for tomorrow,” the stable-hand said, picking up most of Geralt’s gear and taking it downstairs when Dandelion nodded. 

Dandelion spent a while cleaning up the wounds when he found them, washing the blood away and wrapping bandages around the raw wounds even though they had already started to heal. Geralt must have timed his potions well, he was packed with black blood, sure, but he was healing up like he had also managed a dose of swallow at some point to counteract the anticoagulant in the vampire-venom. It meant that all he needed was sleep, rest and food, and he would be fine. 

Or, as fine as he could be, considering the circumstances. Dandelion tried to ignore the tightness in his own chest as he sat on the edge of the bed beside Geralt. He could see the tension in the witcher’s body, see how he tried to rest through the pain, wait it out until it got better. 

He pressed a kiss to the top of Geralt’s head as he undid the string holding his hair back, let the grey, matted hair down and ran his fingers through it over and over. It was filthy and tangled and there was a scent of bog-water and grime but he could not have cared less as he climbed over Geralt and settled down on the bed next to him. 

There was nothing he could really do. Geralt had never voiced any preference regarding whether or not he wished to be left alone when he was hurt like this. Sometimes he was in too much pain to be touched, but he did not seem to feel worse when Dandelion placed his hand on Geralt’s unharmed shoulder, and Dandelion figured that even if Geralt might not need this, he did. 

“It can’t be easy for you.”

Dandelion glanced down at the man sitting quite comfortably on the footrest of the bed. He had not seen him enter the room, nor heard him. It was the stable-hand, now in a yellow tunic with blue stripes on his sleeves. It seemed the man had just appeared out of thin air. 

“Gaunter O’dimm, I presume?” Dandelion mumbled as he placed his hand over the marks on Geralt’s face as if he could shield him from further harm.

“He told you,” O’dimm said, sounding surprised, but pleasantly so. “I’m glad I made such an impression.”

“He did not say much,” Dandelion replied and wondered why he was not more upset about it all than he was. Perhaps it was because he had the distinct feeling that he was up against the humanoid equivalent of an avalanche that had already buried Geralt, something he could not possibly fight, just survive. “I only know your name, and that he owes you a debt for his rescue. And that you did this.”

He did not move his hand, it was obvious what he meant anyway. O’dimm’s expression did not change, he just folded his hands and watched Dandelion intently. Dandelion did not return the gaze.

“You know,” O’dimm said, sounding like he had just realized something as he suddenly appeared by the side of the bed where he started pacing from side to side, walking slowly, like a university lecturer on the lookout for cheaters during an exam. “You can save him. You have the power in you to do so.”

“I would do anything to help him, but why would you allow me to?” Dandelion asked as he sat up slightly. O’dimm paused, looking hurt. 

“I feel for him,” O’dimm said as he sat on the bed next to Geralt and placed his hand on Geralt’s shoulder. Dandelion had half expected for Geralt to flinch, or try to move away from the touch, but he remained where he was, his breathing tight and tense, his pulse racing too fast, skin clammy from blood loss. “He had a wish, and he did not think it through. It was amusing at first, you know? See him face von Everec, a man who cannot die, see him figure out the impossible tasks given him.”

“Geralt is not stupid, he has cracked more impossible curses than you can know.”

“Undoubtedly, he figured out what Maximilian Borsodi’s house was, and even though he could not complete the task without a great deal of bloodshed, he succeeded,” O’dimm said as he stroked Geralt’s shoulder gently through the bandages. “Allowing the spirit of a dead man to inhabit and control his body to show him the time of his life? Impeccable problem solving, he was doing so well.”

“He is not doing well,” Dandelion protested, feeling the tension coil in his stomach as O’dimm looked at him with such understanding and pity. “Geralt might be a monster killer but you and this von Everec have forced him to choose sides, to commit murder. You’re breaking him.”

“Which is why I am here,” O’dimm said, his voice soft and soothing as he moved his hand in Dandelion’s direction, only stopping when the bard pulled his hand back and tucked it under the pillow so O’dimm could not touch it. O’dimm sighed softly and placed his hand on Geralt’s chest instead, his fingers stroking the bare skin there as he spoke. “I had hoped he would find purpose in von Everec’s tasks, a challenge to provide some distraction, something more than mere contracts, but it seems I missed the mark entirely. You can tell as well as I do that he is on the verge of giving up. He is not living, he’s doing a half-hearted attempt at surviving and it is my fault. It was only chance that brought his horse here, to the one place in the world he might find a friend. I wish to make it right.”

“What, you’ll fix my problem, I take on his debt?” Dandelion asked, hating the way that O’dimm’s thumb stroked over an old scar on Geralt’s chest. It was nothing, it should have been nothing, it was not a threatening move but Geralt was unable to defend himself from it. 

“You can help him, Julian,” O’dimm said, smiling kindly when Dandelion finally met his gaze. 

“You gave him a task,” Dandelion said, electing to ignore O’dimm’s use of his real name. “He had to fulfil von Everec’s wishes. What tasks do you have in store for me?”

“None whatsoever,” O’dimm said, looking surprised. “No tasks.”

“What will you do?”

“I’ll have him return your love,” O’dimm said, moving his hand slowly across Geralt’s chest. “Think about it, for what better purpose in life is there than unconditional, mutual love? What better motivation to survive, to take care of oneself?”

“There is a catch. There has to be. You wish for me to agree to this, so there must be a catch.”

“I will not ask for anything from you as long as you draw breath, I swear upon all the gods and all that is holy,” O’dimm said, sitting up straight and pressing his hand to his own chest. “Imagine it. Geralt of Rivia, finding true love at last, a reason to come home every day. A reason to be happy.”

“How can I-”

“Let me.”

Dandelion gasped as he met O’dimm’s gaze. The world shifted and his body felt impossibly heavy for a moment, as if he was falling asleep. 

Geralt smiled. It was all Dandelion could see over the heads in the crowd, the pale skin, the white hair, that brilliant smile that meant Geralt had for one blissful moment forgotten about the world and his ill fitting place in it. The music continued playing, the song drifted on the air through the cheers and applause as Dandelion got to his feet. The crowd parted for him as he crossed the floor, watching Geralt push away from the wall he was leaning on, as if he could not wait to have Dandelion in his arms. His embrace was gentle, Dandelion moaned softly into the reverent kiss as the sound of music and cheer around them faded into faint, distant bird-song. 

The scent of cherry trees in bloom washed over them, and underneath him he felt the strong, rhythmic movements of a fine steed. Geralt smiled as they parted, then leaned in to kiss Dandelion one final time on the tip of his nose before urging Roach forward. Dandelion’s stallion perked its ears attentively as Geralt’s mare danced excitedly on the path ahead. It was spring, the sun warmed Dandelion’s back and bathed the fields in a golden hue. Geralt glowed as he turned his mare so he could look at Dandelion, he was happy, clean, clad in an emerald green shirt that brought out the yellow-gold of his eyes, soft, black pants and dark boots with golden buckles. 

“Race you to town!” Geralt shouted, and Dandelion let his horse run free. Butterflies danced in their wake as Dandelion trailed Geralt’s delighted laugh along the narrow path through the blooming fields.

Dandelion closed his eyes for a moment and just enjoyed the feeling of clean, warm summer air of Toussaint as he walked through the grass towards a white building with a blue roof. He heard the chatter of women working in the fields, inspecting grape-vines and tittering with excitement as they saw Dandelion, the famed bard, returning home. He knew it was home, because Geralt was there, he was riding a fine black stallion, his chest bare and shimmering as if the sunlight could visualize that strange tingling sensation of touching a witcher’s bare skin. The horse was young and full of vigor, so when a plump white puppy ran up to the horse, yapping happily and dancing back and forth, the horse proved to be its own master still as it despite Geralt’s attempted commands bucked him off and set off down the fields, taking turns chasing and being chased, spurred on by the village children cheering and laughing at the spectacle.

“Geralt!” Dandelion shouted and ran up the hill to where Geralt lay unmoving in the grass. “Geralt, are you alright?”

He yelped in surprise when Geralt suddenly moved, grabbed him and rolled them over in the grass so he could pin the gasping bard to the ground. 

“Welcome home, love,” Geralt said in between passionate kisses, smiling like an idiot when Dandelion pushed him over so they could lay in the grass, side by side, kissing, touching, not a word passed between them as they were beyond the need of those. Dandelion looked into Geralt’s eyes and saw nothing but a beautiful man close to bursting with love-struck happiness and health.

Dandelion smiled, blinked, and the world turned dark and cold. Geralt was on his back next to him, a miserable husk of a witcher on a shabby mattress in a cheap inn, trembling slightly at each excruciating inhalation of air through a barely healed throat. 

“You could have all of it, you and Geralt,” O’dimm said softly, he was kneeling by the bed now, tracing his fingers over Geralt’s features, stroking down along the bridge of his nose, down towards his lips, parting them slightly to feel his teeth. “Every day, for the rest of your life, just you and him. Nothing but love and happiness. He has suffered so much injustice, hatred, pain, suffering in every way imaginable, don’t you think he deserves it?”

“There is always a price,” Dandelion whispered, still trying to sort his mind after the visions he had just been shown. Geralt had never mentioned this, never mentioned that O’dimm could twist reality and dreams so tightly together. It had seemed real, just the right amount of real, enough to not make him question how they got there, what had happened up to that point. 

He had not yet been aware of just how powerful Gaunter O’dimm might be, and that awareness kept him rooted to the spot as O’dimm pushed a finger into Geralt’s mouth. The witcher coughed, tried to turn his head to the side as O’dimm pulled his finger free, studied it for a moment and then sucked it clean. 

“I keep to my word, Julian,” O’dimm said softly as he leaned forward, lowering his voice as if the two of them were exchanging secrets in the back of a classroom. “I can give you this. In return, you will never see me again, for as long as you draw breath. Don’t you owe it to him? For all the trouble you have caused, for all the pain he has suffered, for all the betrayals by those claiming to love him, does he not deserve happiness? It would be no sacrifice, not for you.”

Dandelion swallowed thickly and pressed his brow to Geralt’s shoulder, trying to ignore the thoughts that were clamoring for attention at the back of his mind. 

“It will happen, one day,” O’dimm whispered, his voice clear and loud in Dandelion’s mind even as he pressed his hands to his ears, trying to keep the voice out of his mind or his secrets inside his head, he was no longer sure which one mattered most anymore. He had seen Geralt care so much over the years. Care for everyone and getting nothing in return, he had taken on contracts and been tricked out of his pay, everywhere he went he had heard stories about the good natured witcher who would take on contracts for a thank you and an apple, the freak stealing children, the white haired vagabond who made a habit of ruining maidenhoods and the lives of men. 

Dandelion hated it. He hated the lack of gratitude, the abuse, the way Triss had lied to Geralt about everything, manipulated his mind, all for the want of power and attention and his touch. He remembered her gaze as she shook her head at him and closed the door in his face back in Vizima, said she could care for him best and that Dandelion would make himself useful and find the child Alvin, he would have to earn her trust after spending time with Shani, prove his loyalty to her and Geralt. He could see her now, reaching out, taking Geralt’s hand in her as they vanished, he was rooted to the spot and helpless. 

But she was not the only one. Memories flooded in, memories mixing with fears and it was not only women, Shani had always had a soft spot for Geralt, she would have him if she could but she was no sorceress, not like Triss and Keira Metz, Geralt had told him of her. She had owned Geralt for a while as well, held his attention with her schemes. She did not admire him though, not like Shani did, not like everyone seemed to do. 

It was not limited to women, either. Dandelion remembered Vernon Roche, the haunted, desperate ex-commander of a squad of Temeria’s finest special forces, a man who had dropped everything to aid Geralt over and over, despite the countless betrayals thrown at him. Geralt had chosen to aid the elves and Iorveth, and Roche still had forgiven him and offered up his life to aid Geralt in his desperate fight against the Wild Hunt. It was the kind of loyalty Dandelion could feel to the very core of his bones. It was such a big part of Dandelion’s life by now that he could see how it developed in others, he could see how Geralt’s presence, how his touch changed lives and how it sparked love and admiration and need and Geralt never thought of his own well-being, just accepted, let them do whatever they felt like, let them use him as they pleased for their own gain. 

They just took. Took and tore at the seemingly endless pool of kindness in the witcher’s heart and called it love. He had walked in on Geralt and Eskel more than once, usually with Eskel on his knees with a mouth full of cock, pressing bruises into Geralt’s hips and kissing him afterwards, claiming Geralt’s mouth as his own, the taste of cum a reminder of Geralt’s debt to him. He remembered Thaler pressing Geralt up against a wall, demanding obedience and getting it. Lambert crawling in under Geralt’s blanket as they all camped in the wilderness, thinking himself unseen, shutting Geralt up with kisses and then a hand when that was not enough as he fucked Geralt slowly, slow enough to not wake anyone else. The soft whimpers were as vivid in his mind now as the day he had heard them, it was the sound of a desperate Geralt full of cock and cum, unable to find his own release. Not the same moan he had heard by the gates of Kaer Morhen, before the battle, when Geralt and Roche stood so very close and Roche had turned so Geralt’s hand brushed up against his crotch. The man had not moved away, just tilted his head slightly as his gaze met Geralt’s. There was a tightness in his chest as he watched Geralt smile, his hand wrapping around Roche’s slim waist, stroking his side as they both glanced back at him and then vanished into the guard-room by the gate to find their privacy before hell broke loose. 

It was petty jealousy. Nothing else. Yet he could not fight it, not when Geralt’s gaze so obviously roamed over Triss in her green dress, how Ves’ cleavage always got his attention. Geralt never fought temptation, nor did he try to discourage being one, he did nothing to discourage Radovid as the mad king stroked Geralt’s shapely legs in the too tight leather pants, not when he let Elihal fawn over the fit of his new shirt and even encouraged it by letting the elf touch him. He had never once turned down Foltest’s invitations, just nodded, said ‘yes, your majesty’ and closed the door behind him. 

Every encounter was a risk. One day Geralt would be taken away forever. Dandelion gasped at the near physical pain as he watched Avalla’ch push Geralt through a portal, into a dark, snowy abyss where dark shapes in skull masks were waiting for them, the flash of an elven blade in the hand of Iorveth as Geralt lay surrounded by three naked elven women in the ruins of a dwarven kingdom. Dandelion screamed as he was dragged backwards out of the deep, dark halls of a castle, watching Geralt with a golden collar kneeling by a grand throne, tilting his head back as a red haired queen clad in a red cloak patted him affectionately on the head. The marble flagstones cut into Dandelion’s hands as he tumbled down the stairs in front of a grand castle with white spires, the black and golden flags of Nilfgaard shining in the too-bright sun. He lay there, broken and bleeding out as he watched Ciri reach her hand out to the witcher who was watching him from the top of the stairs, and he could not understand why Geralt would have done this to him, why he would have thrown him away with as much disgust on his face as if Dandelion were a dead rat. 

“I need you at my side, Geralt.” The voice echoed in Dandelion’s mind, it took him much too long to realize it consisted of three voices. Ciri’s voice, youthful but already hardened by responsibility. The cold, hateful sneer of Yennefer where she stood next to the Emperor of Nilfgaard, whose voice was a looming terror in the background, a deep rumble that seemed to shake the very foundations of the world. Geralt turned when Ciri called his name once more, and he joined her, let her take his hand and let her guide him over to kneel in front of Yennefer and Emhyr, who were both wearing crowns of white fire. Dandelion struggled to get to his knees as he watched the gates close, the shriek of the metal drowned out his scream as he tried to move, darkness closed in as the gates met, the slam of the lock was loud enough to make Dandelion collapse to the crumbling ground.

The scent of black blood, sweat, bog and dirt came to him first. It was a link to reality, the first pull out of the nightmares and he reached out to find more. The clammy, bandaged skin, Geralt’s filthy hair between his fingers. Geralt’s pulse, too quick, too weak but there, fighting to pump poisoned blood around in his system. The trembling had stopped. Dandelion did not know if Geralt was warming up or if it was his own skin who had turned cold, but Geralt felt alive and real and present. 

“That’s not him,” Dandelion whispered, not trusting his own voice. “That was not him.”

“It is all as it was, and will be.”

Gaunter O’dimm’s voice was soft and sympathetic. Dandelion shuddered as he realized the man was sitting cross legged next to Dandelion now, and that his hand was stroking Dandelion’s back. 

He was surprised by his own reaction. Being patted by Gaunter O’dimm should have felt intrusive and wrong, the complete opposite of Geralt doing it, but it felt fine. It felt so good he almost sobbed with the relief of it. It calmed him down, he felt his muscles relax and he had to stop himself from leaning into it, away from Geralt. 

“Could be,” Dandelion whispered, this time not because he did not trust his voice to break but because the touch felt like being bathed in kindness. There was no threat in it, no sexual intent, it just seemed to reach into his soul and take away those everyday aches. It was everything he dreamed of, it was like the dream where he and Geralt had been touching in the grass. He had felt nothing but pleasure and happiness, back then. There had been no suffering. He breathed in deep and focused on the words in his mind. “That was not Geralt, not as he is, not as he will be.”

“And what will Geralt of Rivia be?” O’dimm asked, quiet and curious. 

“Geralt of Rivia will not be mine,” Dandelion said. He felt the distance between himself and Geralt, felt how close he was to O’dimm, how close he was to being trapped in the hazy fog of well-being. “He will not belong to anyone. If he did, he would no longer be the self-sacrificing, grumpy old witcher who despite everything that has happened to him still manage to find compassion and some kind of love for almost everyone he meets on his path. If you take that away, he is not my Geralt anymore. ”

O’dimm did not speak for a while. He had moved his hand from Dandelion’s back and reality started rolling back in. He could feel the pain in his feet from the dance, the ache in his back that seemed to be ever-present these days, a lingering headache and the pinched feeling in his shoulder where he was resting on it. 

“This is rare,” O’dimm said, now standing by the bed beside Geralt and looking down at them both. “Finding love strong enough to resist the temptations of a god. You do know what you have denied him? Denied yourself?”

“I do,” Dandelion said, meeting O’dimm’s eyes. “Before you go. What was the price I would have paid?”

O’dimm smiled, as if he had not actually lost out on a deal tonight. He looked pleased as he watched Geralt on the bed, like inspecting work well done. Dandelion shuddered when that gaze was turned on him.

“Your soul, on the day of your natural death,” O’dimm said as he started walking slowly towards the door. “I will leave you wiser than I found you, Julian. I trade in souls, and you just gave up your chance to save his. You have just a few years left. He could have had hundreds. Hundreds of years of loving and being loved. It will not be Yennefer, Cirilla or anyone else taking him from you, it will be me, it will be sudden, and it will be soon.” 

The door creaked open. The inn downstairs was deadly quiet, the entire world was quiet as O’dimm looked at him with kind, sad eyes. “Goodbye, Dandelion. Pray he forgives you. Pray they all forgive you for what you have done.” 

The sounds of the world filtered back in as the door closed behind O’dimm. The song and music from the festivities, drunken gambling in the main room downstairs, the sound of horses outside, alternating snoring and love-making in the rooms beyond, the noise carrying easily through the paper-thin walls. It was overwhelming after the mind-numbing silence. Dandelion buried his face in between Geralt’s shoulder and the mattress, fearing that despite all the noise someone would hear.

“Don’t cry, Dandelion,” Geralt whispered after what seemed like an eternity, turning slightly so he could wrap his arms around the trembling bard. “I’m not gonna die. Not now.”

The kiss was nothing like the one they had shared in the dream world. Geralt’s stubble scraped against Dandelion’s sensitive skin as their lips met, and Geralt tasted of coagulated blood, foul potions and stale saliva, almost enough to make Dandelion gag on the tongue dipping in between his lips. Geralt’s hands were rough where they pushed into Dandelion’s hair, calloused fingers catching on strands and pulling them free from his scalp and Dandelion found himself returning the touch, trying to both keep Geralt away and get him closer at the same time.

He knew what Geralt wanted. The potions had run their course, he was healing up and coming to the realisation he had survived, now he wanted to feel alive. Dandelion reached down when he felt Geralt’s hand struggle with the buttons and buckles on Dandelion’s garments. He undid enough of them that Geralt could pull the short breeches off, leaving Dandelion to get his own shirt off, leaving him in his blue stockings and nothing else. 

Geralt’s rough hand was on his cock before Dandelion’s discarded clothes hit the floor, grabbing hard enough to make Dandelion whimper even as his cock filled. He opened his eyes in time to see Geralt crawl on top of him, his erection pressing hard and heavy against the thin fabric of his undergarments. He looked like the monster so many accused him of being where he stood on all fours, bloodied, filthy and growling under his breath as he dragged a rough tongue over Dandelion’s throat. 

He knew Geralt would stop the moment Dandelion voiced a protest. He had done that before, told Geralt to stop when it had turned out to be too much and too rough for him, and every time Geralt had done so. It was why he ignored the warning bells going off at the back of his mind as he watched Geralt grab his legs, push them back and apart so Geralt could drag his tongue from Dandelion’s ass, over his smooth balls and up along his now straining cock before slipping it into his mouth. 

There was no use holding back, not when Geralt seemed determined to suck Dandelion’s heart out through his cock. He would be too sore to wear clothes for days if he tried to make this last, so he reached down and grabbed his knees, holding them in the position Geralt wanted them and immediately got his reward. Geralt grabbed his cock, adding pressure to the entire length of his erection, the other hand reached up and pushed into Dandelion’s mouth. It tasted absolutely revolting, a mix of potions, filth and monster-guts, but it was Geralt’s fingers and he knew where they were going next, so he coated them with as much spit as he could possibly manage before Geralt pushed them into his arse without further warning. 

The burn pushed a gasp out of him but Geralt did not stop, fingers digging deep into his body and raking over his prostate, over and over until he came, filling Geralt’s mouth with cum. Having the fingers pull out felt almost as bad as having them go in, but then Geralt’s tongue was on him, pushing Dandelion’s own cum into him, soothing the burn and licking him open through the mind-numbing after-shocks of his orgasm. 

On a good day, Geralt could spend hours pleasing his lovers with his mouth, bringing them to the edge over and over again until they begged for cock but this was not proving to be a good day for either of them. Geralt was running on his very last shreds of energy, so Dandelion let go of his knees, pulled Geralt up and wrapped his legs around the trim, scarred waist and mewled through the pain of Geralt’s cock pushing into him. He counted the sharp, stuttering movements, only getting to four before Geralt bit his shoulder, holding him down with his full weight as he came, not pulling out but wrapping his arms around Dandelion’s body and holding him in place even as Geralt’s cock softened in him. 

It felt better that way. Geralt would have need of a round or two more before the stress was out of his system, so Dandelion stroked Geralt’s back gently until he felt the possessive bite turn into gentle kisses. 

“Don’t be sad, Dandelion,” Geralt mumbled against Dandelion’s throat, waking the bard from his slumber. “You’re safe, that’s all that matters.”

“I couldn’t help you,” Dandelion replied, relaxing his legs slightly as Geralt shifted his grip on him. 

“Got myself into this mess, I’ll get out of it,” Geralt said quietly as he got up onto his elbows. He looked a little more alert, more in control of himself as he looked down at Dandelion, stroking his fingertips through Dandelion’s hair over and over. His hands were shaking as he ran them over Dandelion’s face, pressing into the soft tissue of his cheek, feeling the bone underneath. “Ain’t sure what’s real and not anymore, but... “

“This feels real,” Dandelion said as he stroked Geralt’s sides, feeling the cock in his arse harden again as he kissed the other. “Nothing like the dream. It’s real.”

“I’m hurting you,” Geralt whispered, and it was not a question. 

“Just go slow,” Dandelion mumbled and grunted in surprise when Geralt started pulling out. Sore as he was, with only some spit and cum to ease the way, he could feel every inch of the limb dragging against his insides until the thick head of Geralt’s cock pulled against his rim. He blinked when he felt Geralt’s slick hand, fingers spreading oil where they were joined, slicking up his own cock as well before sinking back into him.

The oil helped. It did nothing for the burn of the too rough start, but it removed the feeling of being scraped apart from the inside. Geralt was well endowed, and the pressure and pull over his prostate was good enough that he could not stop himself from moaning softly.

“Does it hurt?”

“Keep going.”

“Dandelion…”

“O’dimm’s word held no pain, Geralt,” Dandelion whispered, reaching up so he could grab Geralt’s hair and pull him down, twisting the grey locks in his hands until Geralt gasped. “No pain or discomfort, distractions, nothing. Nothing but endless days of cheer and sunshine. It was perfect.”

“Yen and I were supposed to be perfect,” Geralt said, kissing Dandelion’s neck when he was finally allowed to move. 

“You can be,” Dandelion said and moaned as Geralt fucked him, slow and careful. “Ohh...you’re so good together when you’re not trying.”

“Dandelion, I’m balls deep inside you,” Geralt said, pushing as deep into the bard as he could to prove the point. “This is the right moment for you to try and get me back together with Yennefer…?” 

“You are perfect together,” Dandelion argued, choking on a yelp as Geralt sat up, turned him onto his stomach and pushed his legs apart so he could enter him again, cover Dandelion’s smaller frame with his own. “You’re perfect together when you’re not trying to be what you can never be. She’ll love you as you are if- if you love her as she is.”

“Tell me to stop,” Geralt whispered even as he fucked coherent thought out of Dandelion’s mind, the weight of his body and his hands holding the bard down underneath him, pinning him in place as effectively as if he had been chained to the floor. 

Dandelion shook his head as best he could, arched his back underneath Geralt and felt how close he was, the possessive grip threatening to choke him, too sharp canines leaving bruises that would last for weeks on Dandelion’s shoulders. It was over as abruptly as it started, Geralt pressed into him hard as he came, keeping them both perfectly still so all they could both feel was their ragged breath, the thunder of their hearts and Geralt’s cock twitching, filling Dandelion’s arse for the second time that evening.

-

Dandelion woke up a while later, this time on his back. Geralt was sleeping half way on top of him, but Dandelion did not feel particularly crusty and the blankets were pulled up over them, so Geralt had probably done some maintenance on them both before falling asleep.

Geralt was heavy, easily twice Dandelion’s weight, but he also knew Dandelion liked being used as a pillow so he had made himself quite comfortable, his head resting on Dandelion’s chest, one leg flung over Dandelion’s thighs. It was part of the sleeping arrangements that the three remaining wolf witchers seemed to enjoy these days, just piling up for warmth and the rhythm of calm breaths and slow heartbeats. 

“You might as well be purring,” Geralt grumbled, about half an hour into being petted by Dandelion. 

“I’ll enjoy you while I can,” Dandelion said with a small smile. 

“You still think I’m mad at you for not selling your soul for me?” Geralt asked, taking Dandelion’s hand and putting it back on top of his head when the bard stopped stroking his hair. “I’m not. I just gotta man up for the third task, then it’ll be fine.”

Dandelion turned his head slightly and looked out the window. It was still the dead of night, the music had died down and the enthusiastic love-making down the hall had also ended, so it was likely just before dawn. 

“What is the third task?” he asked as he stroked Geralt’s wayward eyebrow into shape. 

“I have to return the rose that von Everec gave to his wife many, many years ago,” Geralt said with a sigh. “That flower’s long gone, Dandelion.”

“Why is the rose important?” Dandelion mumbled thoughtfully. “Not just a rose, but -the- rose.”

“He gave it to her when he left her for good. She died soon after, I think.”

“Know where?”

“Mhm. Estate.”

“As a professional poet writing professional works on witchers and their works, it sounds like prime ghost material. You must tell me all about it when you return triumphant.”

“He wouldn’t have made that a task if he knew her ghost was there, that’s just stupid.”

“Geralt, he does not understand you,” Dandelion said, smiling gently as he ran his fingertips over Geralt’s ear. “I don’t think either of them understand you. Twice he has failed, first trying to be smarter than you, working by the idea that witchers are thoughtless monster-slayers. You proved him wrong. The second time he thought he had you by challenging your pride, but you let a soul join yours, let him take control over you in the most intimate way imaginable. Possession was the obvious solution, and you never hesitated.”

“So what’s he supposed to challenge with this rose stuff?” Geralt mumbled as he spread his hand over Dandelion’s side under the blankets. “The witcher’s famed lack of patience?”

“Olgierd von Everec thought you lacked intellect, thought you had too much pride. Von Everec now challenges you with his dead wife. He probably believes you to be just as incapable of understanding love as he is. Both you and I know that is not true, so… use your compassion,” Dandelion said, humming contently as Geralt moved his hand down to grab his buttock. It was the kind of grabbing Dandelion had learnt to associate with Geralt just liking butts in general, and it was also known as a trick of distraction. Dandelion decided not to let him win this one and kept his mind on his thoughts, not the feeling of Geralt’s hand. “You’re so clever, Geralt. Just be yourself, not the simple witcher they think you are.”

He had expected some sort of protest at this point. Geralt had spent much of the time Dandelion had known him trying to convince everyone and everything that he was some kind of unfeeling freak who took no stance in politics and had no care for anything else than monster-slaying, by now he would usually have gone out and gotten himself into some sort of fight with the locals just to avoid the topic altogether. Geralt was doing none of those things, he just pulled the blankets up to his nose and took a deep, calming breath before he spoke. 

“Dandelion?”

“Hm?”

“Can we stay a while longer? I mean… got a bit of potion sickness still,” Geralt lied. He made a content sound as Dandelion stroked his back and pressed a kiss to the filthy, tangled mass of his hair. 

“Yes. Yes we can, Geralt.”


	14. ❝are you third-wheeling too?❞

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roche and Iorveth. 
> 
> Warnings: RRR for Underage prostitution, dubcon, underage drinking, drowning, torture, imprisonment, rape, shrink-person-fic, implied enslavement, Emhyr/Mererid (mentioned), murder, combinations of all of the above.

❝are you third-wheeling too?❞

“That ain’t what third-wheeling means, you idiot.” 

“Of course it fucking is, two sparring partners, suddenly assigned a third.”

“If only the commander’d pull his head outta his arse.”

“Keep your trap shut. Or you a bit keen on latrine duty for a week?”

“Fuck off.”

Iorveth peered at the humans as he made his way through the trees surrounding the camp, jumping easily from branch to branch while trying to pick up on some sort of meaningful conversation between the filthy humans on the ground. Spying always sounded exciting in the ears of fresh soldiers. The danger, the lurking, listening in on plots and plans and finding that one crucial piece of evidence that would save the day for their squad. 

What they did not realise was that spying usually meant listening in on what proved to mostly be small-talk, spiteful comments, lewd jokes and long winded speculations on whether the sore was a bug bite or syphilis. There was a lot of complaining about the food, the weather, and the lieutenant taking too much time with the best prostitute. 

He watched in silence as the soldiers went through the drills. Silence and worry, if he was honest with himself. The soldiers of Temeria were onto something he had only heard rumours of happening in the kingdoms in the east. They were not practicing formations or getting basic saluting down to perfection, they were practicing close quarters combat and they were working themselves to the bone. 

A group of ten soldiers almost caught him unawares as they rushed through the thick undergrowth of the forest, parting around the barrels he was hiding behind and encircling the tent in front of him before the soldiers sparring had a chance to hear them. 

“That’s your commander dead, you morons,” a tall, square jawed man with somewhat too pointy ears growled as he marched through the group of soldiers that now stood or lay where they had fallen during the training. “Never assume the world is safe. Yes, we have perimeter guards, but the Scoia’tael are perfectly capable of killing them quietly.”

Iorveth crawled through the dry grass as he listened to the commander list in great detail every little thing the still-saluting soldiers had done wrong. 

He got the impression that the soldiers were young. Iorveth, like most elves, had difficulty telling most humans apart unless they had some kind of distinguishing feature, but he could see that at least half of the soldiers showed obvious evidence of being either half or quarter elves and that most of them were barely out of their teens. Some of them had long, lonely strands of whiskers pasted across their pale upper lips in pathetic attempts at growing a moustache, some of them had arms and legs of a length they were not entirely used to yet, and all of them showed the recklessness shared by all youth no matter the species. It meant dangerous bravado and a firm belief that they were invincible. 

Youth usually meant carelessness, lack of discipline and skill, but Iorveth was seeing none of that right now. He would have been less worried if he did, but all he could see was bored soldiers who were stuck doing boring, repetitive things that they could have done so much better. Bored soldiers could make mistakes, but these were hungry for action.

At least he had found out which one was the commander’s tent, so he crept over it through the yellow grass and huddled down in the shadows behind a crate, prepared to sit still and listen in for as long as he could. 

The day passed without much happening other than casual chatting, vague complaints about the weather and wild theories about what would happen next, theories that were no better than any Iorveth could make up after a couple of days trying to keep up with Cedric’s alcohol consumption. 

He really wished he had brought water. The air was stifling hot, the slight breeze did nothing but rustle the grass and dry his skin out, the soldiers were just getting yelled at, so he found himself some shade and settled down to wait for night to fall. 

-

“Fire!”

Iorveth blinked himself awake, and cursed fulsomely in the privacy of his mind as the scent of smoke registered. In this weather, with this drought and in this breeze a fire would spread faster than a man could run. Faster than an elf could run too. He could only hope the other elves had picked up on it in time. 

He ran out as fast as he could, his claws digging into the dirt as he gained speed, dodging feet and falling equipment left and right, trying to find a way through that was not downwind from the fire and not over the edge of the ravine. Either would mean certain death. 

He needed a quick way out, but he was not fast enough, could not be fast enough at this size. 

A horse soared over him, wild-eyed and with embers singeing its fur, it was Iorveth’s last chance. Iorveth ran, jumped, kicked at an upturned bucket and flew through the air towards the horse, seeing how its rider was more or less flat against the horse’s neck, giving it free reign to run as fast as it could. It did not need motivation with the fire licking at its hind legs, and neither did Iorveth as he reached out and just in time managed to close his claws around the horse’s tail. 

The horse neighed, kicked out in Iorveth’s direction but the rider just yelled and dug his heels into its flanks, sending it into a frenzied gallop through the woods. 

“What the actual fuck-” the rider said as he turned to see what his horse was freaking out about. 

When a huge hand grabbed him, Iorveth tried to yell, but it came out as a shriek. It was pain like he had never experienced it before, the pressure immense as the man’s grip threatened to crush his torso. Something did give, making him almost pass out from the pain when the horse threatened to buck its rider off and the rider cursed, looked at Iorveth and then everything turned black. 

The burlap sack scraped against any bare skin as the horse ran for its life, the fire was close enough that the red glow shone through the bag as it was tossed and thrown around, tied to the saddle as it was. Iorveth jolted awake from the pain and passed out again, fading in and out of consciousness as the horse and rider seemed to go on forever. 

He wished it would end. He would take any kind of torture, he would take hanging, flaying, anything to just escape this hell, he could not brace himself or hold on to the burlap as his arms were useless, the grip must have dislocated his shoulders, every movement of the horse made the burlap sack jostle and bounce and the movement made him cry out in pain until he could not make sounds anymore. 

The fire was so close he could hear it. He could feel the warmth through the bag, some point soon the horse would run itself into death and ruin and Iorveth could not wait for it. 

He had expected to die by fire. Rather the raging wildfire than the fire that seemed to grind through his bones, which was why he did not hold his breath but gasp in shock as water suddenly filled the burlap sack, and then he was floating in the shockingly cold darkness. 

His lungs filled with water and the last thing he thought was salt. Salt water. 

He was going to die at sea. 

-

Iorveth had rather preferred death to the excruciating pain of being upside down and coughing his lungs up with dislocated shoulders. 

“There you go,” a quiet voice mumbled, big fingers patting him roughly on the back as he vomited seawater until he nearly blacked out again. “You’re alive, you’ll be alright…”

Iorveth heaved for breath, breathing hurt almost as much as drowning, which was a good thing since the human chose that moment to figure out that his arms were not hinged correctly to his shoulders and just popped them back in without warning, as if this was something he had done a thousand times before. 

He usually kept quiet when he was hurt. Most elves did, the wailing of the dying was not a common sound on battlefields where elves fell, they died quietly and slowly and made as little fuss about it as possible. Iorveth did not feel particularly like an elf right now, he was not even a foot tall, his arms hurt like hell, he had just drowned a little and his face was covered with spit as he had apparently been resuscitated, and now he was at the mercy of a damned human with the endless sea churning on one side and a fire raging on the other. 

“We have to get away from the fire,” the human whispered as he pulled his deep hood off, revealing a bare, skinny face with short, black hair shaved down to next to nothing around the ears. He looked terrified where he sat in the sand on the beach, coughing hard as smoke from the raging wildfire washed over them, but he still took his time gently arranging a pale and whimpering Iorveth into the hood, wrapped it safely around him and then tucked the bundle into his jacket, making sure Iorveth had enough air to breathe. 

Iorveth felt the human stand up, heard the wild whinny of a horse barely kept under control and he groaned as the human got into the saddle. The horse needed no further prompting, and as the world shook around him, Iorveth choked on smoke until he passed out.

-

He had no idea how much time had passed once the horse stopped moving and the human stumbled out of the saddle, all he registered was being put down on the ground inside the wrapped up hood, then the sound of splashing as man and horse drank desperately from a stream. There was the sound of a canteen being lowered into the water, then the hood was peeled away and the lid, filled to the brim with fresh spring water nudged his chin. 

“Drink, we can’t stay here long,” the human said as he helped Iorveth sit up and incompetently tried to help him drink water. About as much of it went down Iorveth’s damp clothes as it did into his parched body, but he felt a bit more clear-headed as he was tucked up into the hood and back into the jacket again. 

This time the escape was not so desperate. The horse was as motivated as they were to get away from the fire coloring the night sky in a flaming red, it trotted down the road at a steady pace and occasionally broke into a gallop if the wind sent the smoke in their direction. 

It seemed to go on forever. In the darkness in the man’s jacket, Iorveth did not register if it was day or night, where they were going and why. His clothes did not dry up, the human was warm and sweaty from the ride and the hood and the inside of the jacket were damp to begin with, but he was not drowning and not burning and that was a major improvement to how his week had been going so far. 

He blinked in the darkness when the human moved, jumped down and landed on the floor with a soft thud, took the bundle from inside his jacket and carefully placed both Iorveth and the hood inside the saddlebag.

“Wait here,” the human whispered as he closed the lid of the saddlebag. “I’ll be back soon. Need cash.”

-

Soon proved to be long enough for Iorveth to drift off. Once again he had no idea how much time had passed, nor did he know where the human was taking him, but there was the sound of a badly played tune on a badly tuned instrument making a constant background noise for chatter and the clatter of cutlery. He heard the hum of the human speaking, then the creaking of stairs, the opening and closing of a door. 

He blinked against the afternoon light as the saddlebags were opened and he was let out into the fresh-ish air of the second floor room. It was not the cheapest sort, the door had a lock and there was an open window letting in some town excuse for fresh air in the summer heat. 

Iorveth sat up in the bundle of soft fabric, grit his teeth against the pain and hugged his arms to his chest as he stretched his legs for the first time in forever. The human had put him down on the floor by the saddlebags before he grabbed a bottle of what Iorveth thought was water but by the sharp, stinging scent of it had to be vodka. The human pulled the stopper out with a slightly alarming familiarity, took a swig and proceeded to rinse his mouth out with it. 

Only then did Iorveth pick up on the scent, now that it was gone. He grumbled to himself as he watched as the human hunched over and retched with professional efficiency, spitting cum, bile and vodka into the backyard below.

So his brave, valiant near killer and saviour was a prostitute and a drunk, judging by how he did not only sip vodka, but proceeded to chug a good few mouthfuls before he put the bottle down and slumped next to the wall. 

Iorveth sat still in the still slightly damp hood and tried to process the events so far. The human was taking this surprisingly well, all things considered. Not everyone could be faced with a miniature elf with a squirrel tail, long black claws on his hands and feet and not react by trying to kill the abomination or sell him. He kept waiting for it, but none of the many possible scenarios seemed to happen. The human just watched him, dark, brown eyes slightly glassy with vodka and whatever else he might be on right now, but Iorveth could not see any hostility in them at all. 

It was a strange sensation.

“Fuck this,” the human whispered as he struggled to stand, looking as numb and shaky as Iorveth felt. He still found the strength in him to bare his teeth in a hiss when the human reached down to pick him up, and this threat went entirely ignored. 

“I’m sorry, alright?” the human said as he placed the hood with Iorveth in it on the table. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen to you.”

Iorveth growled, it was a sound that came out more like the sound of a dying bee after twenty years of intense chain-smoking, which dulled the effect somewhat, but nothing more happened than that the human turned around and opened the door, and held it open with his foot as he picked up and dragged in a couple of big buckets with steaming hot water in them. 

“The fire’s been following the coast,” the human said as he dipped a sizable mug into the warm water and put it next to Iorveth along with a huge towel, then propped up a book in between them so Iorveth couldn’t see anything. Not that he wanted to see anything, particularly not when there was the sound of clothing being removed and human bits being washed. 

“Just a bushfire. A few farms burnt, but some sorceresses set out and stopped it before it spread south, the coast stopped the rest,” the human said, and Iorveth peeked around the book to make sure the human was busy. “I’m Vernon, by the way.”

Iorveth grunted, turning back when Vernon the human pulled his filthy shirt over his head, revealing filth and scars. 

“I guess you don’t have a name,” Vernon said, probably talking to himself now. Iorveth ignored him as he very carefully pulled his own makeshift shorts and vest off so he could climb into the mug and get the worst filth out of his hair and the crusty saliva out of his face and hair. Iorveth was back in his makeshift, filthy clothes by the time Vernon got food delivered on the door, and ate the small portion put in front of him since it was that or eating the towel. Fortunately the human gave Iorveth water with his meal, and not the vodka that he seemed to treat as water judging by the pace at which he was drinking it.

“So, you cannot speak,” Vernon mumbled as he put the bottle down on the table, looking surprised at himself as he seemed to do it a bit harder than he had intended. 

Iorveth shook his head as he got to his feet and started pacing back and forth on the table, feeling how his tail twitched like a snake’s. It was a good table to walk on, exactly ten steps from one end to the other and he counted the steps inside his head instead of going absolutely, irrevocably ballistic, which was what he wanted to do. 

“It’s a curse? You’ve been cursed?”

Iorveth paused, stared at Vernon until the man raised his hands placatingly. 

“Not a curse?”

Groaning as loudly as he could, Iorveth collapsed as dramatically as possible into the bunched up hood on the table and immediately regretted it as it set his sore arms on fire. He was still heaving for breath when both he and the hood were picked up, he scratched half-heartedly at the huge hand that had after all caused this damage in the first place reached down, turned him over onto his back and folded his arms over his chest. It felt better but he still snapped his jaw at the fingers coming down to brush his hair out of his face. 

“Look, I can tell you ain’t happy being the way you are and… you’re probably far from home. I want to help, but you’re not giving me much to work with,” Vernon said as he walked over to the window, still steady on his feet despite the constant smell of vodka on his breath. He elbowed it open to let the breeze in and carefully sat on his bed with his back to the wall, the hood and Iorveth propped up in his lap so they could continue their one-sided conversation. 

“I can’t guess through all this, so you gotta start giving me hints,” Vernon said, sounding almost hurt as Iorveth rolled his eyes. “Just try something. Guess the words game, maybe, something like that?”

Iorveth scowled, sighed, and raised his clawed hand. He held up two fingers, raising an eyebrow at Vernon meanwhile. 

“Okay, here we go,” Vernon mumbled. “Two words. Second word, short word. Er.. it? The? I, me? You? You. So, the second word is ‘you’. First word. Short word.”

Vernon stared at where Iorveth was pushing his right hand index finger repeatedly through a circle made by the thumb and index finger of his left hand. 

“You know, if you want to be a squirrel for the rest of your life, it’s fine by me,” Vernon said as he put the hood with Iorveth on it down on the foot end of the bed a little more gently than he could have, turned his back to Iorveth and curled up for some demonstrative non-sleeping. 

It only proved how thick headed both of them were, in the end. Vernon eventually just fell asleep, his body going slack as dreams found him. Iorveth glared at him for a moment before he burrowed deeper into the hood, fluffing his tail up over himself instinctively as he closed his eyes and hoped that the next day would be the day he woke up from this nightmare.

-

Iorveth woke up the next morning to the sound of someone moving around, turned his head and watched as Vernon drank the rest of the vodka for breakfast, realised he was looking at the man from under a bushy tail and had to bite back the sob threatening to escape him. Five days. Fifth day being the size of a squirrel, with a long bushy tail, black eyes, fuzzy ears and claws on his hands and feet. 

Iorveth dropped his head down on the soft fabric of the hood and considered his options. He was very, very far away from home. He did not know where home was, the desperate flight from the wildfire had sent them westwards since he had almost been drowned in the sea, and he had a vague recollection of the sound of waves mostly being on the right side of the horse as Vernon had spent what could have been days riding, and that could only mean south. 

He was small, at top speed it would take him a week to travel the distance a horse could manage in a day, and that was without accounting for gathering food, rest, detours or dodging dangers. If he even found the way back. Everything was unreliable at this size, he could get lost in tall grass and if he was out in the open, it had to be when the sun was up to avoid the owls. Three days on horseback meant at least a month, if not two, trying to find his back up along the coast of Temeria on his own, then pick his way through scorched land and try to find his people or the damned bastard whose fault this was. 

He was only half way through his sulking when the hood was yanked away from underneath him, he whimpered when he landed on his bad arms and sat up, hugging his arms to his chest as Vernon tucked the hood under his belt, took the saddlebags from the chair by the door, grabbed the door handle, yanked it open and paused. 

Iorveth held his breath. He had not meant to be a prick yesterday, but he had been frustrated then. The frustration had burnt away during the night, leaving only a cold, dark pit of fear that he had not even begun to explore yet. 

How could he, who would have to jump to headbutt someone in the kneecap, travel all the way back and find that one alchemist on his own? 

If the world had been kind, Vernon would have turned around, walked over to him, apologized and let Iorveth crawl back into the hood just like yesterday. But the world was not kind to elves and squirrels. Vernon sighed, staggered slightly as he stepped outside and closed the door behind him. 

The click of the door echoed around the empty room. Iorveth sat in silence at the foot of the bed for a long while, staring at the door and waiting for Vernon to regret his actions, waiting for him to come back, but when the door did open it was only to let in the ample rump of the innkeeper’s wife as she backed into the room, carrying a bucket, a broom and a pile of fresh linens.

Iorveth was out the window in a flash, ignoring the burning sensation in his shoulders as he scrambled up the drainpipe to the roof. He shrieked as he was almost bashed down off it by the wings of a dim-witted dove, kicked the bird out of the way and scurried across the tiles, sending moss and dry leaves flying in his wake. 

Vernon had left, he could not rely on the human anymore. First of all he needed food, then he could find out where he was, and after that he could make a plan. Perhaps he could find a map, memorise the main roads and follow them back up north until he hit the fires, and then move around the scorched land and see if he found any trace of fleeing elves. 

Four hours later, he was not even halfway through the city. It was when he had been nearly trampled by two horses, pecked at by a pigeon, and finding himself in the middle of his second fist fight with a overzealous tomcat only escaping with his life intact due to a pack of mongrel dogs seeing the cat and chasing it instead of him that he realised that he had miscalculated. 

It would take him months to get back, if he survived the next week at all. 

Hating everything and everyone, he followed the scent of herbs until he found himself an apothecary and stole a roll of fine gauze to bandage his clawed up arms, then he proceeded to steal a razor blade, picked a quill apart to get the nib holder and used a piece of suture string to tie the blade into place. He had to find Vernon, somehow, and on the way there would be more cats and pigeons and dogs and curious children which needed discouraging.

A day passed before Iorveth managed to catch up with the caravan Vernon had joined, and on the way he had killed three rats, one pidgeon and cut the face of one curious man who had -dared- picking him out of the hay-cart he had caught a ride on. He was getting pretty good with his makeshift weapon, so he felt less hesitant than he probably should have as he approached the camp. Iorveth stepped forward as quietly as a squirrel sized elf could manage, which was pretty damned quiet if he was any judge, watching the looming bodies around him for any sign that he had been seen. There was one advantage to being his size, sneaking was damned easy once he had learnt to not let his tail give him away. 

He counted at least fifteen men. Not men, truly, more like mercenaries, none of them were friends with the others, they were thugs for hire. Few enough to not be a serious threat to any kings or their vassals, but they still had the numbers to make sure they were not cheated on deals. Iorveth grit his teeth as he passed by a campfire and made his way through supplies and sleeping bodies, heading for the wagons parked at the edge of the woods. One of the advantages of his transformation was a near ridiculous sense of smell, which meant he had no problems finding Vernon. He just had to follow the scent of shame and cheap vodka all the way over to the new smells and sounds that he definitely did not like.

There was mumbling coming from behind one of the wagons. Mumbling and the sound of skin slapping on skin, and the scent of oil, cum and stress. He slowly pulled his blade from the scabbard across his back, felt the balance of it and kept to the shadows. 

“You’re lucky,” the mercenary growled, grabbing his cock and pushing back into Vernon’s shivering body. “Most have to beg for all ten inches of this beast, and you’re getting paid for it.”

Vernon was on his elbows and knees, clothes pulled haphazardly out of the way to give what smelled like multiple mercenaries access to fuck him. He looked pale and dazed, like someone who had taken a few too many hits to the head, and it seemed the apathy counted for the rest of him as well. The mercenary spat a curse as his cock slipped out again. 

“Fucking hell, can’t believe you’re just eighteen,” the man sighed, grabbed Vernon and flung him over onto his back in the grass. “You’re as slack as as if you’ve been servicing my horse, and I know the guy before me ain’t that big. Just how much of a slut are you?”

Vernon did not reply, nor did he protest as the man knelt over him and pushed his cock into Vernon’s mouth, grabbing him by the back of his head and pushed hard into his throat, choking him over and over. 

“That’s better,” the mercenary chuckled, closing his eyes and tilting his head back as he  
relished the feeling of Vernon’s throat around his member. “Ohh, that’s good. Might even let you ride on the cart for free if you keep this up, you little who-”

Iorveth was death from above. The unseen menace, the silent killer. The razors of his home-made double bladed weapon cut perfectly across the man’s throat. The thin line went through both major arteries and the trachea, the wound split like the skin of an overcooked sausage, sending a spray of crimson into the night. Iorveth doubted the mercenary had time to even feel the pain, he was dead before he hit the ground.

Vernon coughed as he turned over on to his side, heaving for breath as Iorveth marched over to him, the razor-blade weapon resting over one shoulder as he eyed the Temerian critically. The man was not even trying to cover himself up, he just stayed there on the grass, on his side, seeming to hold on to the ground as if it could somehow fly away from him if he let go.

Iorveth sighed, walked closer, raised his hand and slapped Vernon’s face as hard as he could. That got the soldier’s attention, and when Vernon’s gaze met his, Iorveth saw what the problem was.

He had seen such looks many times in his long life. Distant, far-away gazes, eyes watching but not seeing as a deep hurt of the mind numbed everything else. He had seen it in the eyes of parents who had lost children, lone survivors of massacres, and in the eyes of dying horses. 

Iorveth hated that he recognized it in the dark brown eyes of a drunk and broken eighteen year old Temerian whore. He hated that this man was his only chance to get home, that this sorry excuse for a human was the only one who had a vague idea that Iorveth was real.

He absolutely loathed how he reached out and placed his hand on Vernon’s brow, stroking gently along a dark bruise and he wanted to kill him for the pang of relief he felt when Vernon responded to the touch and some life returned to his glassy eyes. 

Perhaps it could work. The mercenaries had not come to look for their missing comrade yet, and Vernon seemed to just now realise that the one that had been busy fucking his throat was dead on the ground next to him and had started to feel an appropriate amount of panic as he got to his knees and looked around. Iorveth put a claw to his lips and then pointed to the sleeping men in the camp and breathed a sigh in relief as Vernon seemed to understand. He nodded at Iorveth, wiped himself as clean as he could with the dead man’s shirt before pulling his clothes on, and then reached into the wagon for the same saddlebags Iorveth had seen him carry around before. He took the money-pouch from the mercenary’s belt almost as an afterthought.

At least he was prepared to leave in a hurry. Iorveth nodded at him, turned and ran into the forest on lightning fast little feet while Vernon tip-toed along behind him into the treeline. Once they were out of ear-shot, Vernon did not start running as Iorveth had suspected he would. He just jogged at a pace that he would be able to keep up for hours if need be, a pace that would not wear him out too soon or make too much noise or movement, and he kept the pace up despite being in obvious pain. 

When they hit the river, they moved south along it in unison without having really planned anything. It meant they were off the road, the mercenaries could not bring the carts here, it was leading them further away from the road and it was easy to follow even in the dark. Now all Iorveth had to do was find a safe place to rest up, a good horse and a way to communicate with his human so he could tell him that this was not a spell but a potion, and that they needed an alchemist. 

A stick of charcoal and some parchment would do the trick for communication, provided Iorveth could write something that Vernon would be able to read, which again relied on Vernon knowing how to read at all and whether or not he could stop putting dicks or vodka into his mouth for two minutes. 

Perhaps Vernon had some writing supplies in his saddlebags. 

Iorveth stopped and turned to watch as Vernon caught up with him, he had slowed down slightly as the sun struggled up along the horizon and getting in his eyes. Iorveth frowned in the bright light as well, blinked when the sun suddenly vanished, and screamed as claws grabbed him. 

He tried to get to his weapon, but with one arm restrained and the insane up-and-down motion of the falcon as it carried him off across the river and into the fields disorienting him, his grip on the blade faltered and he could not even see it fall, nor did he have time to ponder the curious feeling of not actually being killed as the falcon swooped down into a clearing and landed on a man’s outstretched arm. 

“Aah look, my lord. Carissa brought back a squirrel.”

“It looks terribly ill,” another man said, his nilfgaardian accent as thick as the glasses perched on his nose. “Pray it does not bring scabies or worse.” 

Iorveth shrieked as the falcon pecked at his arm and punched it in the throat, making the falcon take to its wings and consequently drop Iorveth onto the ground. 

“Catch it before it runs away!”

“What -is- that!?”

Iorveth scurried across the dry land, claws finding purchase as he raced along in between expensive boots, silk skirts and colorful tents. One man tried to step on him, a lady fainted as he scaled her dress and took a shortcut over a long table laid with white linen, flower arrangements and golden plates. He pushed at every shiny crystal goblet he passed, spilling wine everywhere and adding to the confusion. He kicked away from the edge of the table, aiming for a low hanging branch of an oak-tree overhanging a white and gold striped tent pitched underneath. 

He would have made it, too, had not a fierce, female scream sounded right next to him just before a suspiciously heavy handbag smashed into him and sent him flying backwards the way he came. 

Iorveth was unconscious by the time he landed in the fruit salad.

-

Iorveth thought he had seen the peak of human degeneracy in Vernon Roche. What could be worse than the man who had first popped both of Iorveth’s shoulders out of their sockets, then accidentally drowned him, then resuscitated him, fixed his arms and brought Iorveth along to get an insight into just how professional a probably-not-even-eighteen-year old boy could be at whoring himself out for money and vodka and how it seemed to be his solution for every problem in the world. 

Vernon had been kind enough, though. He had treated Iorveth as if he was real, as if he was just a person in an unfortunate situation. Sure, he had picked him up and carried him around but that had been necessary while Iorveth recovered and then because they were in a city where a tiny elf and squirrel hybrid would attract attention. But at least Vernon had talked to him, tried to communicate, let him sleep in the surprisingly comfortable hood, he had given him privacy when he needed it and even propped up a book for Iorveth to hide behind as he washed up in a mug of warm water. He had even put Iorveth’s food on a tin lid to serve as a plate and served him mead in a small spice-container which he had cleaned out so Iorveth could sit and eat properly with him. He had not appreciated that, then, being treated like a doll. 

Now he hated how blind he had been to that kindness, but perhaps he would not have picked up on it anyway until he got to experience the contrast. 

The first thing he noticed when he woke up was the scent. Everything, including himself, smelled awfully floral and he had a fierce headache that was a mixed result of having taken a handbag to the face a little while ago and his scalp being on fire. 

Someone had washed him. His skin was sore as hell and coated in some kind of slightly slippery fluid that he suspected was rose oil, his long hair was soft and clean and had been combed so hard Iorveth was surprised he actually had any hair left at all. 

Humans and their fascinations. He grunted unhappily and tried to not let his imagination get involved as he moved his tail away from his face so he could see where he was. 

It was evening, once more. It meant he had been out of it for a full day, and when he tried to move he figured out why. There was a needle mark in his thigh, which was sore and tender. They had probably given him a sedative, and then put him in this cage. 

The cage resembled a gilded bird’s cage. Circular with a flat floor, the bars sturdy enough that Iorveth could not hope to shift them, and it was suspended in the air as well so he could not go with his initial plan which was to rock it off whatever surface it stood on and break it open that way. The cage was not tall enough for him to stand up in, but he could sit, and he could sleep if he curled up on the fluffy pillow he had been provided with. 

He tried inserting a claw into the lock of the door, but found it was sturdy and definitely not one of the simple sorts used to keep birds locked inside. They had to suspect he was intelligent. Iorveth rattled the cage door unhappily and screamed his defiance, but it fell on deaf and absent ears. He had almost exhausted himself when the tent flap opened and a gang of at least ten young human women stepped inside, tittering and laughing and, worst of all, drunk. 

They flocked around the cage, and he had no place to hide as long fingers reached in and prodded at him from all sides, touched his tail, tickled his stomach and tried to scratch him under the chin. He clawed and bit at them as best he could but they were swift and even if they gasped, they did not stop. 

He thought the worst was over when the fingers retreated and the girls started chatting in high pitched voices that mixed and for Iorveth to keep up with. He grabbed the bars and glared at them, feeling his tail betray his nerves behind him as he watched them rally and dare each other into doing something that seemed to involve him. 

He backed off as far as he could as they descended, encircled his cage and fingers reached inside again, this time not to tickle, but to restrain. He had thought that he was fairly strong for his size, but not when determined fingers grabbed his legs and pulled them forward so he fell onto his back, nearly crushing his tail underneath himself. He shrieked in protest and they shrieked for the fun of it as they pulled his legs through the bars, immobilising him completely before the fingers started exploring his cock. 

They were too big, too rough and squeezed too hard as they prodded and pulled and laughed, having the time of their lives as Iorveth tried to fight them off. They were too strong, pinning his arms down with such force that the pain of nearly having bones snap in their grip overshadowed everything else. He could not move, or something would break. 

Worst of all was that when he turned his head to the side so his hair fell over his face to hide the tears, when pain and exhaustion made him slump, their assault softened up. He heard cooing noises, they were expressing sounds that indicated they found his display of submission utterly adorable and to Iorveth’s overwhelming relief, they also seemed to lose interest.

He stayed where he was, not moving a muscle as they lost interest for the time being and went on with whatever they were doing. Iorveth dozed in and out of sleep, arms spread out, legs dangling outside the cage as the scent of perfume grew stronger and then disappeared along with the noise as music started sounding outside. 

Iorveth did not move until he got so cold he could not stand it anymore, only then did he curl up around his sore limbs in the middle of his cage before wrapping his tail around himself. 

-

Iorveth quickly lost track of time. After the initial excitement, the lady who apparently owned him now seemed to pretty much lose interest in him. She prodded his cage now and then, and sometimes pushed in pieces of fruit which he did eat when she was not around, but else he just tried to sleep and come up with plans that slipped out of his hands as soon as he thought them up. 

He had nothing to help himself with. He had been in the cage for at least two days now, he had not seen the girl for the last eight hours or so, which was a relief and a gnawing worry at the same time. If she forgot about him or left him, he was dead. If she kept prodding at him, he might just find a way to tie a string from his own hair and hang himself, which meant he was also dead. He could escape somehow, but the girl seemed to have been warned against that, during the first day she had pushed a small brush through the bars and tried to comb his hair. She never moved to open the cage door. 

Iorveth sulked and curled up a dozen different ways before he managed to stop shaking, and nearly screamed as he opened his eyes wide. 

He had been on the brink of falling asleep and diving into a brand new nightmare when someone touched his cage. It was dark in the tent, and he crawled away from the looming figure for a moment before the very familiar scent of his human registered. 

“Be quiet,” Vernon whispered as Iorveth jumped forth and shook the bars of the cage door, trying to show that he had to get out of there, and that it had to happen now. He watched as Vernon examined the lock, taking forever and then a few eternities until he bent a piece of wire into shape and started picking the lock. 

Iorveth whined low in his throat as Vernon shushed him and pushed his claws out of the way so he could work, he could not understand how calm Vernon was when threat loomed so close. 

“I need to focus,” Vernon whispered as he changed the shape of the wire for the fifteen hundreth time, and just as the lock clicked, a high pitched and very feminine scream sounded from the entrance to the tent. 

“A man! A man in my tent, help, help! He is stealing my precious Puffykins!”

Vernon stumbled backwards over a heavy, gilded chest, landed arse first on the silk covered bed just as half a dozen very sober and extremely dedicated looking guards stormed the tent with halberds at the ready, shouting over each other and pinning Vernon to the bed. 

Iorveth had only this one chance. He braced his feet against the soft pillow of his cage, grabbed the bars and lifted the heavy door with a mighty show of strength, slipped out from underneath it and dropped heavily onto the carpeted floor. 

“My Puffykins!” the girl sobbed as Iorveth almost got trampled by armoured boots. He darted from side to side but found that the guards were much less concerned with a naked miniature elf with a squirrel tail than they were with the capture of a potential spy in their midsts. 

Iorveth watched as Vernon was manhandled to his knees on the floor, watched how he did not protest when they bound his arms behind his back and hauled him outside, and only then did he snatch a fallen handkerchief from the ground before sneaking outside. He tied the piece of cloth around his waist and snuck around, only pausing now and then to stand up and catch the scent of his human. 

-

“... no reports of any other act-...”

Iorveth snarled as a horse snorted loudly, drowning out the voices from inside the tent. 

“- Temeria?” the deeper of the voices asked. There was a sharp sound of skin on skin, a slap that made Iorveth cringe. “It does not matter. Tie him up to the wagon outside the alchemist’s tent, Dratinor will make him talk in the morning and then he can hang. There is zero tolerance for spies.”

There was a sound of half a dozen salutes, a grunt as Vernon was pulled backwards through the tent and then across the downtrodden grass. Iorveth kept to the shadows as he followed the enthusiastic guards to a tent placed downwind from the rest of the camp, and it seemed to have been placed there for good reasons. The air was foul with the stench of sulphur and other unknown substances, it made Iorveth’s eyes water as it stung his sensitive sense of smell. 

He waited until the guards had stopped excitedly binding Vernon to a wagon wheel, watching as they started to drift off again after telling whoever was inside the tent that he had a customer waiting. Iorveth scurried through the tall grass, keeping his tail low and his ears perked as he made it to the cart. He bounced over Vernon’s legs, clawed his way up the human’s shirt, grabbed his cheeks with both hands and stared at him for a moment. He looked alright, he looked alert and only got a whispered: “Squirrel…?” before the tent flap rustled. Iorveth scrambled over Roche’s shoulder and into the dark behind him. 

“I see, a spy, very interesting,” the man said as he walked over to Vernon and stood in front of him. “My name is Dratinor, I am an alchemist.”

“Pleasure’s all yours,” Vernon grumbled. 

“So rude,” Dratinor said. “Are you not going to introduce yourself?”

“No.”

Iorveth felt the rough rope that bound Vernon’s hands to the cart-wheel. It was a simple knot, impossible to open with one hand and of the type that tightened if you struggled, but fortunately Vernon had kept still. He found the end and started working it through the loops. 

“It would be best if you did, and so much more comfortable for us both,” Dratinor said as he knelt in front of Vernon. Iorveth gagged slightly at the scent of the man, he smelled of stale sweat and too much perfume and whatever horrors he was cooking up inside his tent. “I really dread the thought of torture.”

“That’s one thing we’ve got in common,” Vernon said, wiggling his fingers slightly to test his range. Iorveth stepped on them to keep him still as he pulled the rope hurriedly. “So why don’t we do something we might both enjoy?”

“I am truly sorry,” the alchemist whispered. “My interests are not of a carnal nature, it is of a… less comfortable one, but no less exciting. You are a Temerian spy, I trust?”

“Fuck you.”

“There we go again, so lewd,” Dratinor said with a sigh. “What I am saying is… I can get you out of this little predicament of yours. Or, rather, you will not have a choice. You will aid me. Should you not succeed, they will hang you, and that will be a far more merciful death than the slow torment of this venom, I can assure you.”

“Why the hell do you want to poison me then, if hanging is the outcome?” Vernon snarled, trying to kick at the man despite his bound feet. 

“Insurance,” Dratinor said. “Now just relax, this might sting.”

Iorveth jumped off Roche’s fingers, slapped his wrist and watched as Vernon reacted with the speed of a snake. His fist connected with the alchemist’s nose, there was a horrible, wet crunch and the alchemist tried to scream. He would have, if Vernon had not reacted right away and grabbed the man, holding him down with an arm across his throat to stop the noises. 

Iorveth jumped over to Vernon’s other bound wrist and made quick work of the knot. He snarled as he ran forth with the rope and scaled the choking alchemist’s chest, dropping the rope into Vernon’s hands before running down to deal with the ropes around his human’s legs. 

“This is what I call a turn of events,” Vernon growled, stuffing the alchemist’s hood into his mouth as a gag before he got to his feet, grabbed the alchemist by his greasy hair and hauled him off into the forest. 

-

Iorveth did not realise just how shaky he was before Vernon picked him up and frowned at him. 

“You okay?” Vernon whispered, before he nodded down at the makeshift handkerchief skirt with the pink lace trimming. “What the hell did they do to you?”

Iorveth made a grumpy little sound and pushed Vernon’s face away with both hands as Vernon sniffed him suspiciously. There had been more than enough touching going on for his comfort the last few days, and thankfully Vernon seemed to understand. He let Iorveth crawl onto his shoulder and waited until Iorveth had settled down comfortably in his collar before he stood up and walked over to the bound and gagged alchemist by the tree. 

“So,” Vernon said as the alchemist blinked himself awake. “I must admit my interests are not of a… carnal nature.”

The alchemist whimpered through his gag, tears already streamed down his pale face as he looked at Vernon, then further up as Iorveth stood up, leaning on the top of Vernon’s head and peering down at him with pure hate in his little black eyes. 

Dratinor screamed as Vernon snapped a small, dry twig in half and reached for one of his bare feet.

“I promise you,” Vernon said as he started working a splinter of wood under the man’s gritty, yellow toenail. “This will hurt you a lot more than it will hurt me.”

Iorveth grinned and grabbed handfuls of Roche’s short hair in excitement as he watched a fledgeling talent at work. It was simple, but effective torture. Wood splinters under finger and toenails, thorns pushed through skin and into muscle. He had no tools at hand but still made do.

“Please, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know!” Dratinor whimpered as Roche removed the gag so the man would not choke to death on the blood coagulating in his broken nose.

“I believe you,” Vernon said calmly, sighing softly at the choked up screams as he pulled the clothes off the man’s dislocated limbs. Iorveth was still in awe of that idea. Dratinor was not restrained in any way, he was spread out on the ground with his arms and legs free, but still unable to move as Roche had dislocated his elbows and knees. “Word of warning, I’m perfectly capable of gutting you in ways that won’t kill you for a couple of days, so you better start answering my questions.”

“But you…” the alchemist gargled through a mouthful of blood. “You haven’t asked…”

“Excuse me?” 

“Haven’t asked any…questions...”

Vernon paused, frowning slightly even as Iorveth cackled from his perch on his shoulder, not caring one bit that he resembled a homicidal parrot. “I am quite sure I did.”

“You… no, never, just ask and I’ll tell!”

“Oh. Ehm, alright. Awfully sorry about that,” Vernon said as he stopped searching through the man’s clothes. “Er, why did you want to kill me?”

“I only wished for your help,” the man sobbed. “He must be stopped, or it will spell the doom for Cintra…”

“The fuck do I care about Cintra for?” Vernon asked as he patted a pocket and hummed to himself as he found a small pocket knife. “Just so you know, I don’t appreciate being used as a murder weapon.”

“I never meant to-”

“You were going to inject me with poison,” Vernon snarled as he flicked the pocket knife open and felt the sharpness of the blade. “You were going to kill me, so slowly, hold my life over my head and have me do your dirty work for some country I don’t give a shit about and undoubtedly put the blame on my country. Have a kid from the north shank a wealthy lord of the south, good way to start a diplomatic fucking conflict, isn’t it.”

“You’re so young, you don’t want to do this,” Dratinor babbled as Vernon sat across Dratinor’s naked hips, pinching some of the loose skin on his belly between his fingers. “I only needed you to kill Emhyr, that was all, but I could not have you back out of it so I- oh, no, sweet Melitele, have mercy…”

“The same fucking mercy you were going to show me?” Vernon asked, his voice nearly drowned by the screams. “News for you, you prick. I don’t fucking care anymore.”

-

To his defense, Iorveth did try to stop Vernon. Half heartedly. Well, he thought about it, at the very least, but he was angry too. Some stupid human had tried to kill his human because it wanted another human dead, injecting someone with slow working poison was something not even he would have thought of doing and elves famously killed their enemies by offering them as living meals to ants. 

Vernon was deep in the blood-craze, so when the sound of soldiers shouting from the edge of the woods reached them, it took him a little too long to realise they were in actual danger again. 

Iorveth pulled hard at one of Vernon’s ears, when that did not work he jumped down onto the most-likely-a-corpse and jumped up and down until the dark, brown eyes focused on him. 

“Oh fuck,” Vernon whispered as he got to his feet. Iorveth grabbed his trousers as he ran past and scaled him with practiced ease, and then they left the soldiers behind. 

Vernon was fast. Surprisingly fast, but not faster than cavalry. He made it down to the road, turned right when a horse came racing up from the left, and ran head first into the fist of the cavalry-man coming up from the right. 

“Got you,” the nilfgaardian snarled as he hauled Vernon up by the scruff of his neck, and it was only the confusion and speed at which the entire thing happened that allowed Iorveth to climb onto the soldier’s black armour, holding on to the back of his surcoat underneath his cloak while Vernon was unceremoniously dragged along back to the camp. 

-

“Are you aware of who I am?” Emhyr asked after a lengthy silence. Vernon tried to shrug and winced as it pulled on the chains on his sore wrists. He had been locked up for half a day, questioned for the rest of it, then chained up and scrubbed down and deposited on his knees inside a very richly decorated white and gold tent. Iorveth grumbled to himself where he lay hidden in the shadows underneath an extremely ornamented desk. 

“My name is Emhyr var Emreis.”

Vernon frowned while trying to pick through a brain which was trying to function without alcohol in it. He was sweating slightly, and he looked clammy and pale as the guard prodded him with the butt of his spear. 

“Oh, the…” Vernon managed as he swallowed bile. “...spice merchant?”

Iorveth did not miss the slight smile on Mererid’s face. 

“Spice merchant, indeed,” Emhyr said as he shifted slightly on the golden chair he was currently occupying. “One of the most famous spice merchants on the continent.”

“I like spices,” Vernon said weakly, cowering slightly as Emhyr stood from his chair, adjusting the sleeves of his black robes before he stepped down to stand in front of the young Temerian. 

“I would say a young man like yourself would have such favourites as… vanilla,” Emhyr said as he started to walk in a slow circle around his prisoner. “Or perhaps cinnamon?”

“From what I’ve seen, this one’s more likely to go for the cumin, sire,” Mererid said, raising an eyebrow very slightly as Emhyr stopped in front of Vernon. 

“Cumin and salt do go well together in many dishes,” Emhyr said conversationally. “Or perhaps our northern friend enjoys cumin on his salad..?”

“I wouldn’t know, sir,” Vernon said, he was trembling now. “I’m more of a… I like meat better.”

“But of course you do,” Emhyr said, smiling the kind of smile that usually came with three rows of teeth and a fin on top. “And why would Vernon Roche, a son of Temeria, find himself so far from home and just happen to sneak into a camp, pose as a servant, get himself caught and sentenced to death, only to run away, kidnap the alchemist of Emhyr var Emreis, spice merchant, expose the man’s plot to kill his lord and master, run away from the mutilated corpse, get caught and then decide to warn said spice merchant about the danger posed to his person?”

“I don’t know, it just turned out that way,” Vernon said weakly. “I didn’t plan any of it.”

“My lord… merchant,” Mererid said, smiling mirthfully as Emhyr turned his head to look at him. “Perhaps the torturer can get the truth out of him?”

“Perhaps,” Emhyr said as he reached down and pressed his fingertips to Vernon’s head, tilting his head back. “Perhaps not. Do you wish for torture, Vernon? Rest assured he is far more effective than the alchemist.”

“You wouldn’t believe me anyway,” Vernon whispered, closing his eyes. 

“And why would I not believe you?”

“The evidence ran away.”

“Evidence?”

“Of the curse,” Vernon mumbled. “I was trying to help someone who got cursed.”

The silence in the tent was deafening. Iorveth held his breath as he watched Vernon kneel on the floor, still in chains and held up by the guards, Emhyr var Emreis and his servant Mererid watching him. 

“I was… working. For the Temerian army,” Vernon mumbled, and Iorveth crept closer under the desk so he could hear better. “It’s been a dry summer, and the wind came in from Lyria, and a fire broke out. I was on a horse and managed to escape the flames, but I had a stowaway with me. A guy who had gotten cursed, I think. He was small, the size of a squirrel, with a squirrel tail and squirrel ears and long claws on his hands and feet. I wanted to help him, but he was caught by a falconeer and then kept here in camp, I was just going to rescue him but the alchemist said something about killing you and… yeah. We kidnapped him because he tried to make me do it for him, and we might have tortured him a little?”

“You were skinning the man.”

“Got a bit carried away,” Vernon admitted sheepishly. 

“And where is this cursed being?” Mererid asked, stepping up to Emhyr. Iorveth tilted his head as he saw Mererid’s hand press gently in between his master’s shoulder blades, his fingers digging into the fabric. 

“I lost him again,” Vernon said. “I keep losing him.”

“As I will lose my sanity, if this continues,” Emhyr sighed. “I have a headache. Take him outside, hang him when the executioner is done with what’s left of the traitor.”

The guard clacked his heels together and pulled Vernon backwards out of the tent by the chains, Iorveth could hear the lock click shut as Vernon was chained back up against the tree where he had spent most of the afternoon. He had expected that Vernon would fight, scream, ask for mercy, something, but he heard nothing. Just heart-wrenching silence.

“A strange story, Mererid,” Emhyr said as he let what seemed to be his personal servant or slave, who knew with Nilfgaardians, take his heavy robes off and hang them in an upturned suitcase. 

Mererid did not reply, just knelt by his master’s feet and opened the laces of his boots, then he held onto the heels of the boots so Emhyr could get them off with ease. Emhyr watched him as the covers were pulled back, the two of them stared at each other for a few moments longer than was natural, and then Emhyr made a slight movement that was barely perceptible but nevertheless a movement that Mererid seemed intimately familiar with. The servant lowered his gaze, took his own jacket and boots off, crawled into the bed and pulled the covers over them both when Emhyr had settled on his back in front of him. 

After an appropriate amount of time had passed, Iorveth crawled forward from under the desk on the tips of his claws, his tail laminated to his back to keep it still. There were no guards inside, and no light other than a storm lamp near the entrance to the tent. He was half-way across the fluffy carpet when one of them sighed and turned over in the bed. 

Iorveth froze. 

“Mererid,” Emhyr mumbled. “You are angry with me. Why?” 

Mererid did not reply at first, and Iorveth tried to mimic a stray sock when one of them sat up. 

“I cannot risk mercy,” Emhyr said softly, and out of the corner of his eye, Iorveth relaxed when he saw that the man did not look in his direction. “Not anymore. Too much is at stake, you know this.”

“It will happen soon, what harm would it do to let him go?” Mererid whispered. “He is but a boy far from home. He does not know who you are, and even if he did, what could he do about it? Soon it will not matter either way.”

“Sentimentality, my dear? Really?” Emhyr mumbled, and as Iorveth picked up on the sound of fingers against stubble and the scent of human bodies heating up, he started inching ever so slowly over to the edge of the tent, keeping himself as carpet-like as he could just in case one of them turned around. 

“I truly believe he saved your life,” Mererid replied. “Your majesty trusted the alchemist. The evidence cannot be denied, and now the boy is to hang for his service to your majesty.”

“Say my name, Mererid.”

“Emhyr...”

“He lied,” Emhyr said, and Iorveth froze completely as he was picking apart the sinew holding the tent together so he could make an escape route for himself. “The boy lied to me. I cannot allow for anyone to lie to me. Not at this time. I need total obedience and loyalty, and consequently… honesty.”

“Then I will be honest with you,” Mererid said softly. “I have known you since the day you were born, Emhyr. I have seen you through exile, curses, love and loss, and I have not always agreed with you or your actions but I have been and will always be loyal to you until the day I die.”

Iorveth very carefully picked at the sinew with his claws as he heard movement again, but this time it was skin on skin and deep breaths, soft sighs and definitely no sounds that indicated that anyone were worrying about the fabric of the tent shifting slightly. 

“Do continue.”

“Your plans,” Mererid said, Iorveth could hardly hear him now. “There will be so many years of death and cruelty. Please… do not start your reign of terror tonight. Not yet.”

There was silence. Perfect silence, two men hardly breathing, but so intensely focused on each other that they did not notice the slight ripple of the tent wall as Iorveth carefully pulled his tail through and crept over to the solitary figure chained up against the tree. 

Vernon was not moving, and he had not been placed under any special kind of guard. He was chained by his hands and feet, there were four padlocks and it immediately killed Iorveth’s plan to pick those locks as well. There was no way he could manage to pick locks his own weight, not at that size, not without alerting anyone. 

He had expected the familiar anger by now, or perhaps fear. He would even take panic over the sinking, hopeless feeling that settled in him now as he looked up at Vernon, who was resting against the tree with his eyes closed, trembling slightly with each exhale. He did not look uncomfortable, he had not been chained up cruelly. 

Iorveth did not even bother to look around. He was doomed anyway, his human was going to die soon and then all hope would be lost. All hope was lost. Vernon seemed to have realised a while ago, his eyes were rimmed with red and tears had painted stripes down his face where they had washed off the dust and grime. It was Iorveth who had been clinging to hope until the very last moment. 

It was not a conscious decision, climbing up Vernon’s chest until he could grab the edge of the hood. He knew it would wake Vernon up, but no-one, not even a human deserved to be alone at a time like this. Iorveth did not deserve to be alone at a time like this. When the rope pulled tight around Vernon’s neck… that would be the end of them both. Iorveth would just suffer longer, alone in the wilderness, and he would take all the comfort he could get before it happened.

He paused when there was a glint of eyes opening within the darkness of the hood. Vernon did not move, he just sat still until Iorveth reached up, placing a clawed hand on Vernon’s nose for balance and grabbed his ear with the other so he could pull himself up and climb into the hood. He wormed his way behind Vernon’s neck and settled down into the collar of his jacket, rested his cheek to the warm, dry skin and closed his eyes. 

“You came back,” Vernon whispered, his voice was just a breath on the air but Iorveth heard it loud as thunder. He did not reply, but it seemed no reply was needed. Iorveth flipped his tail over himself and puffed it up for warmth as he listened to the many sounds of Vernon’s body being alive. He listened to the sound of air dragged through a slightly stuffy nose, the soft clicks and sounds when he swallowed. 

Iorveth counted heartbeats through the night.

-

Iorveth was not prepared for the morning. At all. When the sun rose, a canvas bag was put roughly over Vernon’s head, tied at the neck with a piece of string and trapping Iorveth inside. He had fallen asleep to the rhythm of Vernon’s pulse, and now Vernon was being yanked to his feet, freed from his chains, dragged forward by his unresisting arms and then forced to kneel, facing the sunrise. 

There was a shadow there, sitting haphazardly on a gilded chair with the sun rising behind him. 

“Vernon Roche,” Emhyr var Emreis said. “I have considered your story, and found it to be… unconvincing. However, you have accidentally saved my life, and for that we are grateful.”

Iorveth stayed still, perfectly still as he felt Vernon’s skin turn cold and clammy with fear. 

“Thus, I have decided that you shall live,” Emhyr said, sounding bored and tired. “You will be branded as the liar that you are. You will find no trade, nor sanctuary within these lands, and as a punishment for your espionage you will lose your left hand, and your left eye. We all hope it will guide you on to the… right path.” 

Iorveth could hardly hear the nervous chuckle of the courtiers standing around them, but the sound was immediately blocked out by Vernon’s choked cry as his whole body tensed up and the sound of burnt fabric and flesh wafted up from where someone was holding his arms outstretched. Vernon whimpered and sagged, hanging helplessly in the firm grip of his captors, and Iorveth could not find a way out. The bag was tied firmly around Vernon’s neck, allowing for no openings, but he had to get away from the smell. It reminded him of battlegrounds, death, dying people burnt on fires and the sick stench of fear coming from Vernon rubbed off on him as well. 

“Keep still, or I might accidentally take out both, kid,” a gruff voice said, directly in front of them, and then something very, very warm touched the front of the bag, just next to Vernon’s left eye. Iorveth watched the fabric turn dark, then black, the hood filling with foul smoke as the red glowing poker worked its way through, hissing and spitting.

Iorveth had no idea why Vernon did not panic, but that was alright because Iorveth had plenty of panic to spare at the moment and as the white hot metal zinged Vernon’s eyebrow, Iorveth let it all out at once. 

Shrieking at the very top of his little lungs, Iorveth started running on all fours around in the bag as fast as he could, claws tearing into the canvas and probably scratching Vernon as well which made him start screaming, and then the guards screamed. 

“He is possessed, sire!” 

“His head is spinning!”

“Cut it off! Cut it off!”

“Where is the damned sorcerer!?”

The panic spread, Vernon’s hands were free and he pulled and tore at the edge of the bag to get it off but then he was thrown backwards, gasping for air as he fell to the ground. A figure loomed over him and Iorveth screamed at it as hands came down, pinned him to Vernon’s face and held him still. A sharp knife cut into the bag, nicked Vernon’s nose and suddenly the darkness in the bag was replaced by daylight. 

A young man with a very puzzled expression tilted his head at them. He was thin, blonde, clad mostly in leather and looked very out of place amongst the courtiers. From his neck hung a strange silvery medallion that hummed gently as Iorveth was lifted into the air. 

“Well, witcher?”

“If this is a possession it’s the weirdest possession I’ve ever seen,” the witcher said, shifting his grip on Iorveth and studying him with his golden cat eyes. Iorveth was being held firmly, but not hard, just hard enough that escape was not an option, just like Vernon was effectively trapped as the witcher sat on top of his chest. Iorveth clawed and spat at the leather gloves just to show his defiance. “But it seems the Temerian spy spoke the truth yesterday.”

Iorveth tried to dig his claws into the witcher’s wrist, but then the shadow of Emhyr fell upon them. Iorveth hissed up at it, his tail puffed up as big as it could get.

“I see,” Emhyr said, sounding puzzled. “How very odd. Is it a curse?”

“Don’t feel like one, sire, even if it looks like it,” the witcher said. “I’d say… potions and some complimentary magic. Subtle enough to avoid most kinds of magical detection."

“I see. It is reversible?”

“Probably,” the witcher said, looking past Iorveth and down to Vernon. “With time. These kinds of things usually last for as long as they are planned to last.”

“So what say you, Temerian?” Emhyr said, walking up until he stood next to Vernon’s head. Iorveth looked up from where he was held in the witcher’s hand, all he could see was a codpiece and a pair of nostrils. 

Vernon stayed down, pale with pain and shock and with his face covered in blood by now, and did not respond when the Emperor waited, and then leaned down and plucked Iorveth out of the witcher’s hands. 

“Careful, majesty,” the witcher mumbled. “He has some sharp claws.”

“If he should choose to harm me, I will simply crush him,” Emhyr said as he lifted Iorveth up in both hands to get a good look at him. Iorveth snarled, but did not use his claws on the emperor. He grunted unhappily when Emhyr’s fingers turned his head this way and that, then a huge thumb pulled up his upper lip to check on his teeth. Iorveth let him do so for about half a second before twisting his head to the side. 

“It seems they are both far away from home,” Emhyr said and did a slight motion of his head, which made the witcher get to his feet, offering a hand to pull Vernon up as well. “Perhaps I can make use of this situation. Ardeith, Verhenn. Bring a fast horse, a good map, rations and enough gold for a courier to reach Temeria. Mererid, bring me quill and parchment.”

Iorveth had expected to be crushed to death, to be put back into a cage or maybe even just dropped to the ground. He had not expected to be carefully handed back to Vernon, who immediately let him crawl into the safety of the hood. Iorveth held on to the shell of Vernon’s ear as he sat up, one foot wedged safely into Vernon’s collar, and when his pulse had calmed down from a continuous whine to merely a rapid purr, he managed to pick up on Vernon and the witcher talking together. 

“Here, you’re bleeding all over,” the witcher said, handing Vernon a clean handkerchief before going back to dressing the tender burn on Vernon’s arm. Iorveth looked down just in time to see the nilfgaardian letter T burnt into the skin on his human’s wrist.

“Thanks,” Vernon mumbled as he pressed the cloth to the cut across the bridge of his nose. “So, time is the cure, then.”

“Afraid so,” the witcher said as they both stood still in a twirling whirlwind of camp activity. Vernon made no sound as the witcher put a paste onto the burn and then covered it with bandages. “Can try undo it of course, but depending on what went wrong with the original one it might kill him. Besides, it’s like a cure for the cold, the last thing you try is what works.”

“Makes sense. So how sudden is the change back? If he stays in my hood and changes back, he could break my neck?”

“Probably not, it’s got a bit of magic to it so it’ll be either dramatic or meaningful or something sappy, I’m sure,” the witcher said with a slight grin. “Just one piece of advice, kid, whatever comes out of this, don’t feel bad about it. It’s a freakin’ weird situation to be in to begin with, so just treat it like that. You’ve both been through a lot.”

Vernon nodded, staggered slightly sideways as the witcher clapped him on the shoulder in a companionable farewell and reached up to steady Iorveth in the hood as he caught his balance, just in time to not stumble head first into a white stallion. Vernon was ushered into the saddle, given a map, a letter with an official seal, half a dozen threats to his nation and person respectively, and then they were on their way. 

Iorveth breathed a sigh in relief as he wedged his knees into the space between Roche’s collar and neck and grabbed hold of the hood, narrowing his eyes against the wind as the boy flattened himself against the horse’s neck, racing north as fast as he and the horse could manage before the Nilfgaardians could change their minds. 

They did not slow down until the horse protested against the treatment it was being put through and hauled off sideways to the river where it drank like water was a cure for the bloody flux, and by then it was dark. Vernon sat on the saddle and wrapped himself in a cocoon of blankets, leaning against a tree and dozing the night away while Iorveth got comfortable at the back of his hood. After a quick breakfast that consisted of dry bread and meat for Vernon and some bits dipped in water to soften them up for Iorveth, they were off again. 

They did not communicate much, other than Iorveth slapping Vernon’s face when he needed a break to go pee up against a flower, or when Vernon nudged Iorveth awake in the mornings to let him out of the hood for breakfast. 

The coast remained to their left, this time, and Vernon only slowed down when the horse protested or the few times they ran into rain. Iorveth was glad that Vernon preferred riding in dry conditions, which meant that when they huddled down together in an old hunter’s lodge by the mountains west of Broklion forest it was in the relative warmth by fire in the old fireplace and under the slightly leaky thatched roof, but indoors and safe. The horse was happily resting under a lean-to roof, out of the wind and the rain just outside, they had not seen signs of bandit activity or even wolves, which meant Vernon was being oddly nice and relaxed even as Iorveth sat on his knee, arms stretched out towards the warmth of the fire and his slightly damp tail puffed up along his back. 

Iorveth turned his head when Vernon opened the map, spread it out on his lap and very gently tapped Iorveth’s shoulder with a finger. 

“I’m close to home,” he said quietly. “If you want to be dropped off somewhere between here and Vizima, you better point it out.”

Iorveth turned his head and looked down at the map. He was less than a day away from familiar lands, which meant he would still be small from the potion and magic gone wrong, but also in familiar territory where he would eventually find familiar people. He turned around, stretched his hands out and crept onto Vernon’s arm as it was offered, then leaned down and pointed with a long claw. 

“Middle of the woods, hm,” Vernon mumbled and nodded before folding the map up again and settling down. “We’ll pass through there tomorrow. Hopefully the dryads haven’t expanded their territory.”

Iorveth watched as Roche put a few more logs on the fire, leaned back against his saddle and closed his eyes and then Iorveth waited just a moment or so before he curled up into a ball on Vernon’s chest. He sighed and closed his eyes when Vernon pulled the blankets up so they covered him as well. The pocket of warmth and the slow, steady rhythm of Vernon’s heartbeat eventually lulled him to sleep. 

-

Iorveth was by now used to having the back of his head and neck stroked. Vernon seemed to do it without thinking about it these days, and since elves were more nocturnal than humans tended to be, Vernon tended to be the one to have to wake him up by patting him, not the other way around. Slow and warm and relaxed, Iorveth turned his head to inhale the by now familiar scent. He frowned as his brain started to pick up on the little notes that his senses were handing in, adding up to all the little puzzle pieces that suddenly did not fit together. 

Vernon did not quite smell like he should. The thumb on the back of his head was too flat, too nimble. When he sat up, his thighs fit perfectly around Vernon’s slim hips, and when he looked down, he could see the pink blush on the human’s face, the red of the angry cut across his nose, colors he could not see when he was transformed. 

He was stuck in the blankets, then realised he was entirely naked and he was hyperventilating by the time he noticed that he was being hugged gently, big hands stroking up and down along his back in time with the soothing, whispered nonsense. It felt good. Too good, his skin was alight with new sensations, Vernon’s skin was rough and soft against his. He waited until he could not stay still anymore, knew he was being a tiny bit unreasonable as the hands on his back became too much for him and he snarled as he grabbed Vernon’s arms. After weeks at the mercy of the hands of others he felt his own grip strong and firm around Vernon’s sore wrists, grinding the bones together until Vernon whimpered. 

He wanted Vernon to fight back, but it did not seem to happen. The man was perfectly still under him, flushed and trembling slightly from the pain, but not fighting, and only then did Iorveth notice the size difference between them. Vernon was just a scrawny little teenager, the wrists Iorveth was pinning down were thin as twigs and he was pretty sure Vernon had not even reached his full height. In a fight, Iorveth would not only have beaten him, he would have broken him, and Vernon seemed perfectly aware of the fact.

He was so small. Iorveth eased up on the pressure around Vernon’s wrists when the dark brown eyes glistened with unshed tears in the light of the fire. He expected anger, hate, disgust, something in that range of human emotions as Vernon looked at him, picking up every detail of Iorveth’s being, but the pained pinch of Vernon’s frown only softened into something much too old and tired for his young face.

“Don’t be scared,” Vernon whispered then, pulled his right arm free from Iorveth’s unresisting grip, reached up and stroked his fingers through Iorveth’s long, black hair, his fingertips traced the sharp point of Iorveth’s ear, moving down along the edge of it with a featherlight touch that raised goosebumps all over Iorveth’s arms.

It was ridiculous. Iorveth, an elf who had seen two centuries already, being comforted by a boy who could not grow a beard to save his life. He craved it and hated it all at once, perhaps because he was always scared, by now it was a deep rooted fear of humanity and their rat like infestation of what had once been elven lands, a fear of their ingenuity, their cruelty and the fact that there was no way to stop them.

He hated Vernon and everything he represented. He would have done his people a favour if he just snapped the kid’s neck right now. Iorveth blinked in surprise as he found his hands around the kid’s thin neck, but there was no panic in Vernon’s eyes. There was fear, but it was mixed with acceptance, just like when he was chained up at the tree, or when the torturer was going to take his eye out. Iorveth felt his breath catch in his throat as he recalled the very same expression when Iorveth had saved him from the mercenaries, but this time it was him causing it. 

Vernon was surviving, day by day, knowing there was no point to it because just like the elves of the Continent he had no hope for the future. He was just waiting for the day someone took his pitiful little life from him as he was too much of a coward to find himself a short rope and a long drop and get it over with. Just like all elves should.

“I can’t…” Iorveth whispered, his voice hoarse from lack of use and he wanted to dig his thumbs into Vernon’s stupid brown eyes and pop them out so he would not have to see the understanding in them. 

“A few hours left until dawn,” Vernon said softly as he stroked Iorveth’s cold arms with thin, pale fingers until Iorveth let go of his throat. “Ceasefire until then?”

Iorveth nodded. He could not deal with this right now, could not kill the fragile, young human who had done nothing but try to help him since their escape from the fires, not when he saw so much of his own helplessness in him. 

Perhaps he would regret it in a few years, if either of them survived that long. Perhaps they would meet again and it would be a real fight, testing the unrestrained violence he knew Vernon was capable of against Iorveth’s many centuries of training and experience, but right now they could just be two lonely souls finding a few hours of comfort after a long, strange journey.

Vernon turned obediently over onto his side when Iorveth slumped down next to him and pulled him close for warmth, pressing his own naked form up against the rough fabric of Vernon’s cheap clothing. The human was asleep in seconds. That, or he was very good at faking sleep, but it did not matter either way as Iorveth just buried his face into the crook of Vernon’s neck and tried to forget the real world for a little while longer.

He felt like he had only closed his eyes for a short moment when Vernon stretched next to him and sat up, only slightly hindered by Iorveth’s arm across his waist. 

There were words that should have been spoken, by now. Explanations, maybe, accusations. Vernon kept quiet, moving slowly like he was scared that if he moved too quickly, Iorveth would either attack or run away, and it was not far from the truth. Iorveth watched as Vernon did what he had done twice before, constructing makeshift clothes out of nothing. He cut a hole in the middle of one of the blankets and pulled it over Iorveth’s head, made a belt from a piece of rope he had scavenged from somewhere and then proceeded to poke holes through the blanket at the waist for belt hoops so the fabric lay flat and comfortable across Iorveth’s chest without hindering movement. The makeshift tunic reached him to the knees, and even if he did not have any boots, he would be fine in the woods without them for a few days. 

He watched as Vernon packed up his little camp and saddled the horse. The boy did not say anything and neither did Iorveth. He had expected a quick goodbye, perhaps a warning, but he had not expected to see Vernon to go through the saddlebags and eventually hand him a sack containing hard cheese, dried meat and a couple of apples, and he did definitely not expect Vernon to strap an old but sharp knife to the makeshift belt. 

If he had not already been stunned into silence from all the kindness he most definitely did not deserve, he would have been when Vernon placed his hand on Iorveth’s shoulder. 

“Va fail, scoia’tael,” Vernon said, smiling at his own little rhyme in elder speech before he turned around, climbed onto his horse and nudged it into a canter down the dusty road. 

“Until next time, Vernon,” Iorveth said as the sound of hoofbeats died away.


End file.
